Existential Crises
by Igorina
Summary: When Pollution starts to question his role in the universe the consequences for Heaven, Hell, Earth and the Horsepersons prove to be completely unprecedented. Contains Crowley x Pollution, Famine x Pollution and Aziraphale x Rare First Editions.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs, of course, to the wonderful Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

A/N: I should probably warn that this fic probably won't contain Aziraphale/Crowley (yes, I know, commence the stoning of the blasphemer). Future chapters posted in my Livejournal will contain smut, but I'll be cutting these NC-17 bits from the version posted here.

As he walked into the ballroom of the Hotel Postmodernista Dr. Raven Sable surveyed the assembled guests and smiled. The marketing people really had pulled it off this time. Around the large and delightfully minimalist space milled various emissaries of the media, diet industry and fashion world, along with various British A-list D-Plan devotees: mostly, beautiful, mostly glamorous and – most importantly of all – mostly thin. There were a few faces that didn't fit, of course, a small assortment of sceptics and detractors from the field of nutritional research, whom his top PR woman had advised him to invite for the sake of appearing open, honest and reasonable. They didn't bother Sable; he knew that when it came to forming opinions most people valued celebrity, style and an honest, open face over such tedious things as reasoned argument and empirical evidence. Besides, if it came down to it, his legal people were more than capable of handling 'slanderous allegations'. The last expert nutrition specialist to blast the D-Plan as 'little more than pseudo-scientifically validated anorexia' was currently bankrupt and having severe difficulty getting so much as a high school teaching post.

Smiling, he gave a friendly wave to the health editor of Beauty Today, who was conversing with an emaciated brunette in shoes that cost more than the average UK resident made in six months, before turning his attention to the stage that had been erected at the centre of the room. To its side was a poster board depicting Dr. Sable's visage and emblazoned with the words 'D-Plan Version 2: Slim Yourself to the Next Level'.

"What do you think?" enquired a jovial and ever so slightly inebriated voice from behind him.

He turned to face a tall, youngish-looking man with dark blonde hair, fair skin who, though slim, projected an unfortunate air of well-nourished vitality. Sable recognised him immediately as Richard Broughton, the assistant deputy director of Voltage Advertising: a London firm renowned for its willingness to teeter on the borders of illegality, sojourn to the realms of extreme poor taste and brush aside any and all notion of morality, professional ethics and basic humanity, in the name of flogging overpriced and wholly unnecessary items to the gullible masses. As a general rule Sable tended to leave the nitty-gritty of publicity to other members of the Newtrition corporate family, enabling him to concentrate what one might call the 'core values' of the business; but after hearing about how sales of a particular brand of herbicide had shot through the roof ever since Voltage had launched a high profile campaign featuring several convicted war criminals and the slogan 'Flowerfield's Fungal Annihilatior: For When You Need a Weapon of Moss Destruction', he'd known that getting these guys on board with the UK promotion of the D-Plan Version 2 would mean no tiresome conscience soothing about some of the books more controversial weight loss methods.

"It's a great turnout," Sable said. It was true; he was certain that never before had so many rich, famous and influential people turned up in one place to support wholesale starvation. It was really quite delightful. "You people have done amazing job here, Rich."

The man beamed. "Well, truth be told, we only had to mention your name and practically every fashion model this side of Milan was begging for an invite. Don't think I've ever seen so many members of the press turn up to celebrate a book release."

"Millions of people want to learn how to eat less and I want to help them to do it."

"I'd say you're doing pretty damned well. Even the new Atkins hasn't caused half the buzz that you have. Of course, the deaths of those seven women at that weight loss club in Dorset have raised a few heads, so we might want to work on assuring everybody how safe the new D-Plan is. But I'm assuming that your legal people are working on getting everything tidied up with as few negative column inches as possible. Mind you, I've heard that the silly cows were taking some kind of illegal diet pill as well. Made them digest their own stomachs or something." The man shook his head gave a small laugh, though as he said the word 'digest' there was at once a certain fidgetyness about him, as though he'd suddenly recalled something – like the fact that he hadn't eaten for over nine hours. "Some people just can't do moderation, can they?"

Sable returned the laugh. _Moderation_ indeed. If he had to name to the greatest threat to his mission, his purpose for being it would be that. In times of drought there was, to his mind, nothing more disappointing than a carefully thought out stock-pile of non-perishables that the community had set aside in better times. It was just as disheartening to see men, women and children opting to shed the pounds by adopting a sensible nutrition-rich diet and getting regular exercise. Fortunately for Sable, humans didn't tend to be very good at moderation. They almost seemed to be programmed for excess. Even Richard Broughton, with his obvious careful eating and workout plans had a predilection for heavy drinking and cocaine binges. The toxification of the human body might not have been his specific domain of expertise, so to speak, but he possessed a great appreciation for the little chemical reactions that could lay waste to it. The diet pills, he felt, were testament to this. Not only did the pills contain seventeen types of appetite suppressant, they were also laced beautiful little concoction that if taken at the right quantity caused irreparable damage to the digestive tract and reduced the ability to absorb any nutrients from the food one might consume to a level that was around fifteen percent of that needed to sustain life.

"You got the outline of the proposed ad campaign, I hope," said Richard, stomach giving a loud rumble, as he patted his jacket pockets in what Sable knew to be a search for that SNACKS Bar(TM) he was certain he should have on him.

"I like what you've done with the before and after shots."

"Well, rather than get some actual before and after pictures of fat women who've slimmed down to an average weight, we thought that it would look better if we got a few snaps of some really average women and paired them with a bunch of models with similar hair. That way we wouldn't just be limiting the message to, you know, the chronically obese. They may be a growing market, so to speak, but they do make up less that fifty percent of the population."

Sable cracked a smile. It was so pleasant to encounter people who _almost_ grasped what he was trying to do: even if they were thinking in terms of pounds sterling rather than pounds of flesh. "I like the way you think."

Richard, whose hunger fuelled state of distractibility was fast going from moderate to raging, returned the smile in a distinctly jittery fashion. "Do you want to address the crowd now?" he asked, quite obviously hoping for an opportunity to sneak off for a few moments and locate the nearest vole-au-vent (which, being supplied by the Newtrition Company, contained fewer digestible nutrients than your average table lamp).

Taking a brief visual sweep of the all the groups of thin, pretty young things scattered about the room, he nodded and headed towards the stage from which he intended to lead the diet industry into new era of extreme weight loss.

As he ascended the platform, a multitude of large eyes, set in too-gaunt faces, fixed reverently upon him. He could feel the gnawing pangs of radiating from them. Giving them an amicable, Doctor Knows Best smile he stood before the microphone and gave it a small tap. The resultant crackling that resonated through the room put him in mind of that ever so pleasing sound of bone grinding against bone.

The chattering that had filled the room a second ago instantly ceased.

After five seconds of quiet, in which the only sounds that filled the room were that of dozens of bellies protesting their emptiness, he began to speak.

"Hello everybody. As you probably know I'm Doctor Raven Sable, creator – or as I like to think of myself, 'the facilitator' – of D Plan dieting. The D Plan, as I'm sure many of you realise, is not just a simple weight loss plan: it's a life style. It's a decision to say 'I don't' to wreckless over-indulgence and 'I do' to restraint and self-betterment."

There was a yell of something that sounded like. "That's complete bollocks," from a middle-aged woman whose form was that of somebody who spent an unpalatable amount of time consuming fresh, nutritionally balanced foods.

Utterly unfazed, he gave a congenial laugh. "Well, I see there are a few critics here tonight."

A polite titter ran through the audience.

"Don't worry, I intend to fully outline the scientific basis for some of the more controversial aspects of the latest revisions to the D-Plan. In fact I think there are a couple of-"

He suddenly ceased speaking when a man from one of the major tabloids, who was presently standing near the foot of the stage, loudly and with what most people would probably feel to be disproportionate anger, accused a well-known actor of stealing his packet of extra strong mints.

The actor, who had until that point been quietly sipping the no-calorie champagne that the guests were being served, paused for a few moments, looking understandably confused. He then, without warning, proceeded to calmly pour the contents of the champagne glass over his accuser.

The response of the irate journalist to this further outrage was to deliver a swift punch to the actor's famous jaw.

As said actor was sent sprawling to the floor, his wife, a petit woman, famed for her elegant sense of style and demure nature, yelled a string of expletives and launched herself at her husband's attacker.

After a few moments of startled inaction a few members of the audience bravely stepped forward and attempted to prevent the woman from clawing the tabloid purveyor of celebrity gossip's eyes out. Alas, when one would-be peace keeper accidentally trod on the foot of another a second – and no less vigorous – altercation erupted.

When several more well-meaning individuals stepped into the fray they too were somehow swept up into the tide of violence.

Within the space of half a minute the ballroom of the Hotel Posterdernista became the site of an anarchic full-scale ground war.

For his part, Sable merely remained where he was on the stage and watched the scene unfold with an expression of mild amusement, eyes searching for something amongst the melee. He eventually spotted what he was looking for: a red-haired female-figure in a scarlet evening dress moving easily through the battling bodies.

A thin smile met full-lipped blood-red one.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here," he said, as she neared. "Wouldn't have thought it was your scene."

She gave a laugh that was at once both deeply dangerous and alarmingly enticing. Around her the fighting seemed to become just that little bit more frenzied

"Oh you know me, just about anywhere can be my scene," she said, as she stepped up onto the stage, and stood beside Sable.

After taking a moment to survey the pitched battle that was going on between two groups of medical professionals near to the emergency exit, she turned to look at him.

"And you always know how to set the right kind of scene. They're all mad with hunger."

He snorted, Carmine did seem to like to taking up residence in his playgrounds and he in hers. Nothing like War to cause a really spectacular food shortage, and nothing like Famine to lead to a truly beautiful bloodbath.

"You've always been quite the show woman."

"You're too discrete. A small Middle East skirmish can make the evening news on the other side of the world, but you have to have millions dropping of starvation before any of your work gets mentioned before the football results."

"We don't do it for the publicity. Though it is always nice to have one's work recognised. Besides, that's only true of the more traditional methods. Over here you get a few teenage girls who manage to follow their weight loss plan to its natural conclusion and the whole country's momentarily up in arms."

"Well, I suppose that there is something to be said for attracting as little attention as possible. Too much talk and they tend to start wondering if there's anything they could do resolve the situation."

The both laughed. It was the kind of good-humoured chuckle you got when two long-time colleagues engaged in a bit of workplace banter.

"What brings you here, anyway?" asked Sable, as Carmine took a SNACK (TM) bar from her pocket and hurtled it into the middle of the melee. You could hear bones cracking as a tide of starving couture-clad combatants dived for the nutrient-devoid treat. "Entertaining as this little fracas is, I know you've got bigger things up your sleeve."

For half a second the buoyant and thoroughly dangerous grin on her face was disrupted by a flicker of uncertainty.

"It's the new boy," she said.

Sable gave her a quizzical look. "What about him?"

"He's stopped working."

Sable raised an eyebrow. Somewhere in the background a battle-crazed supermodel gave a berserker yell and proceeded to savagely assault two fashion editors with a pointy-healed Gucci sandal. "What do you mean, 'stopped working'. There's nothing _to_ stop him. It's not like old Pestilence and those antibiotics. The potential for pollution is stronger than ever."

"The potential's there, yes. But he's not doing anything with it. Over the last two months recycling laws have been passed in eighty countries, research into cleaner energy has shown signs of rapid progression and CO2 emissions went down."

That was…. _strange_. The three lesser Horseperson's of the apocalypse _were_ their function: Famine brought famine, War brought war and Pollution brought pollution. If they stopped doing what they were they wouldn't be them anymore.

"Perhaps he's planning something big," Sable suggested.

Carmine didn't seem convinced. "But your work in sub-Saharan Africa didn't stop when you decided to branch out into other areas and I've got interests all over the globe. The kid's just ceased to function."

Sable frowned. He wasn't sure what this meant, but he was certain that it didn't bode well. If one of them had just stopped without reason then they were in unknown territory and that was… unsettling.

"What do you think we should do?" he said.

"I think that you should find him and find out what's going on."

"Why me?"

"You've worked with him more than I have."

This was true. War and Pollution were often connected, but rarely made appearances that directly coincided.

"What about Azrael?"

A grey clad figure, whom had been present, but not noticeable, all along, suddenly shifted into the foreground.

THIS ISN'T COVERED BY MY JURISTICTION. WHAT WILL BE WILL BE.

The antithesis to creation then went back to what he'd been doing, fading to the edges of even his fellow Horseperson's perception.

Well, that certainly sorted that one out.

"I suppose I could fit it in sometime early next week between my book signing in Manchester and the trip to South America. However, I'm not sure what exactly I could do if he's been… compromised somehow."

Carmine looked almost nervous at this. Sable was certain that his expression betrayed a similar level of near-anxiety. "We have to more information about what the problem is before we attack it."

He gave a nod of agreement. "True."

Having obtained the response that she was quite clearly aiming for, Carmine went back to surveying the pitched battle that was currently raging between the newly formed PR Agent-Supermodel Coalition and Actor-Broadsheet Columnist Alliance. The initial source of their dispute was a bottle of orange juice, which had now been seized and consumed by a wily member of the Tabloid Reporter Axis. However the permanent displacement of their object of contention seemed to do nothing to quell the all consuming rage that seemed to have enveloped them all.

Sable couldn't help but be rather entertained by it all. It seemed that once you'd seen red you truly couldn't stop.

"So what are your plans for the evening?" he asked his compatriot.

"Well, I thought I might find a cosy little bar and watch the evening unfold."

He chuckled. "I think I know the perfect restaurant."

As Famine and War left the ballroom, concern about their co-Horseperson temporarily put aside (though not entirely forgotten), few of the combatants noticed them leave. Neither of them minded this. It just demonstrated how consumed the humans were with hunger and wrath.

----------

The Demon Formerly Known as Crawly was, unlike Sable and Carmine, most emphatically, not having an entertaining evening at all.

He was currently driving out of London at speeds in excess of two-hundred miles an hour and engaging in dark fantasies about Hell's civil servants and a high-pressure holy water canon.

Things had started off badly at five thirty-five pm when the director of a major telecoms company, with whom he'd been working with to help create a new mobile phone tariff system that would induce low grade wrath on a massive scale, had called to let him know that he wouldn't be able to continue with their joint project owing to the fact that he'd decided to give away all his worldly possessions and devote his life to working with orphaned chimpanzees in Borneo.

He knew he couldn't blame Aziraphale for that one. His angelic associate and sort-of-if-he-was-being-really-honest-with-himself best friend was currently in Moscow. Officially, the ex-Angel of the Eastern Gate was a mission to sway a few minor politicians away from the path of bribery and corruption and towards the road of public spirited moral uprightness. However, Crowley couldn't help but suspect that the fact that the visit would correspond with the auctioning off of the contents of a rather extensive private library was more than a pleasant coincidence.

Alas, humans had that infuriating yet wonderful tendency to leap from extremes of utter self-absorbtion to complete self-sacrifice and back and forth again, without a hint of divine or diabolic intervention.

Still, his night might just have been salvageable if, during the middle of a broadcast about declining standards in inner city schools, famed newsreader Sir Trevor MacDonald had not turn to face the camera and, with the voice of one of the Seventh Circle's more minor bureaucrats, instructed him on pain of pain to head for the Devonshire town of Willowholme for what promised to be a gruelling and highly unproductive one-on-one temptation.

He blessed as a lorry carrying several tonnes of petrol cut pulled out in front of him, forcing him to sharply break in order to avoid fiery and extremely inconvenient discorporation. Being in an already infuriated mood, he blinked and vindictively transmuted the vehicles cargo into slurry.

It was, the former Serpent of Eden was decided, going to be a G- bloody awful week.

----------

The Cat & Mouse Inn was always quiet on a Thursday evening. It was - with the exception of quiz nights, which could sometimes get a bit out of hand - never the most raucous of establishments; but Thursday nights tended to be especially uneventful. Tonight there was just the barmaid behind the bar, the barmaid's best friend perched on a bar-stool, a group of five middle aged men at the table next to the pool table and a pale young man in white clothing sitting quietly in the corner next to the coal fire.

The men by the pool table talked about the abysmal performance of the local rugby team.

The barmaid talked animatedly about a recent local scandal involving the town mayor, three suitcases of stolen fetish gear and a goat, whilst her friend punctuated the monologue with the occasional throaty laugh and wry aside

All of them however seemed unable to keep from taking occasional sideways glances at the figure next the fire. There was a distinct, if somewhat idle, curiosity as to who the strange and oddly pretty creature was.

The attention, though by no means intensive, surprised him.

White was used to people paying little attention to him. He was the perpetual lab assistant working away in the background, the easily overlooked technician that quietly did his job and rarely received so much as a second glance. Even when the litter danced at his feet and he poured the bleach into the river, the denouncements were usually brief and quickly forgotten. He was so rarely the centre of focus for anything but a fleeting moment. Invisibility was, when it came down to it, a rather useful trait for an entity of his function to have. Pollution was, after all, always most effective when you didn't notice it until too late, so it was perfectly logical that its embodiment should reflect this.

Of course, things had changed lately.

Eight weeks ago the personification of Pollution had watched as eight mega-tonnes of toxic waste was ditched into the middle of the Indian Ocean and had felt an enormous sense of… absolutely nothing. There had been no excitement as the fail-safe containment systems had failed, no build up of pleasure as the nineteen-syllabled chemicals had started to seep out, no orgasmic rush as three-quarters of the marine life in a thirty-mile radius was wiped out and no sense of post-coital satisfaction as he abandoned ship and looked back on the aquatic wasteland that he'd left in his wake.

Pollution had, quite simply, taken a look at his function experienced an overwhelming sense of 'So what'. Why on earth did he care about whether the rainforest was destroyed or whether carbon emissions increased or whether there was a breach in containment and some nuclear power station? The only reason for him to care was because it was his function to care, his function to embody environmental destruction. If he started to question it then there was, well, nothing there. No extrinsic reason why it should matter to him should the sight of a burned forest or poisoned reservoir to cease to have any aesthetic appeal.

He'd thought, during the milliseconds following this realisation that he, on entering this state of sudden and total apathy, would simply cease to exist.

Alas, the fact was that he hadn't.

He had sprung from the minds of men and could never be destroyed as long as he existed there. Pestilence, had, after all, merely retired when he'd felt the teeth of obsoletion at his heels. He had not faded from existence. The striking difference between Pestilence and Pollution however, was that Pestilence still revelled in his role, even if he had stepped back from full-time personification and developed other interests, owing to a decrease in pestilence potential. Pollution on the other hand still had, quite literally, all the potential in the world.

A throat cleared next to him. "Have you finished with that?"

White looked up to see the barmaid pointing at the half-empty pint of cider he'd had in front of him for nearly four hours now. Had either Sable of Carmine seen him at this moment, they would have been startled and disturbed by the continued cleanliness of the glass and absence of litter around the table.

He gave a shrug.

She regarded him with a questioning expression for a few moments before heading over to the table where the group of men sat. He heard one of the men make a comment that involved the phrase 'what the hell is he doing' to which the barmaid replied 'he seems a bit strange, but he's not caused any trouble yet'.

Without any further action he returned, with what could only be described as an empty feeling, to his reverie.

Existential crises are never easy to deal with; but when you possess objective certainty that your existence is utterly devoid of meaning, they're that much more difficult.


	2. Chapter 2

As he zoomed down the - thankfully mostly empty – stretch of road that ran along the South Devonshire coast Crowley's foul mood began to gradually dissipate, and he found himself allowing the Bentley to slow down to a sedate 120mph. The radio was on and currently tuned to a local station that seemed to have a bit of a fixation with seventies disco, despite the jingle's assurances that Radio Otter only played _Today's best hits, everyday_. Crowley was quite enjoying the vitriolic argument the DJ was currently having with one of the people calling in to participate in the _Name that tune_ competition.

He supposed that a week or two in a quaint little out of the way village could be entertaining, depending on how he played things. There was, after all, nothing like a bit of scandalous half-true gossip, to get a small insular community to enter into a frenzy of petty wrath, envy, anxiety, self-satisfaction and greed. Alas, the focus of Crowley's trip was to be the temptation of a devoutly religious local librarian, whose corruption would be a long, tedious process, which probably do very little to increase the net amount of sinfulness in the vicinity. It was petty, even by the standards of Hell's middle management, who to Crowley's mind couldn't organise a soul appropriation at a satanic orgy: but then he did strongly suspect that the whole thing had more to do with Dagon's childish war of one-upmanship with the angel Amitiel (who had apparently taken a paternal interest in the librarian's moral wellbeing throughout the man's teenage years) than it did any sort of coherent damnation strategy.

He glanced at his watch: it was twenty-eight minutes past ten. Not too bad all things considered, he was only fifteen miles away from his destination and the thought of getting a good night's sleep before the temptation campaign began in earnest was starting to increasingly appealing. It was, of course, too much to hope that the little town was going to have anything as basic as a four star hotel, but there would doubtless be some bog-standard, reasonably clean place that he could inhabit without too much fuss, for the duration of his infernal business trip.

On the radio, the sound of the contestant hurling expletives at the equally irate DJ gave way to the half-hourly news summary. The announcement that reports of spontaneous violent and bloody riots springing up at three very upmarket locations in London were coming in, caused Crowley to snort, raise an eyebrow and experience a wave of gladness that he was not currently residing in the capital. The telltale signs that the humans involved were being given a slight nudge in the wrong direction by outside forces were easy enough to spot if you knew what to look for: and Crowley preferred to have as little to do with the Four as possible. They were, even by demonic standards, a little disturbing. It was, Crowley supposed, something to do with the fact that they were so downright intangible. Demons tempted and tormented, but that was just the job description, they didn't personify damnation, even if they did have to devote tedious amounts of time to representing it. The Horsepersons though, they were what they _were_.

Crowley slowed the Bentley down to a crawl of 90 mph as road sign declaring the turn off leading to Willowholme to be located 200 metres away zipped by. As he took said turn several other road users honked angrily at his apparent disregard for some of the more sensible motoring laws.

Within a matter of seconds a large village began to rapidly emerge into view: a mishmash of quaint, old-worldy buildings that many people would call charming, but that was possessed, in Crowley's opinion, of a rather unattractive level of twee. It was, he though, as the Bentley shot past the Welcome to Willowholme sign, a sure bet that there was something a bit off with a place when 60 of dwellings appeared to have a thatched (or at least faux-thatched) roof. Aziraphale would have doubtless found it all rather endearing, if perhaps a tiny bit false, but Crowley really couldn't understand the appeal of a town wherein the primary areas of economic expansion were 'interesting little antique shops' and 'places selling odd bits of misshapen hand-made jewellery'. The demon didn't, by and large, have much of a problem with such businesses: he was after all a firm proponent of gratuitous spending and conspicuous consumption (especially if it involved thousands of pounds worth of credit card debt). It was just that, in his professional opinion, a place should have a little more diversity in its consumerist temptations.

Still, he supposed that trying to get a few more soulless chain stores, fast food outlets, and coffee franchises into the area would give him something to do during his – hopefully brief – stay in the picturesque town. Turning his attention from shopping outlets to possible accommodation for the weary traveller of an infernal persuasion, he noted that there seemed to be a dearth of establishments that didn't scream 'Middle Class Family Holiday'.

In the end he pulled up outside a small but reasonably upmarket-looking place with the words _The Willow Tree Hotel_ spelled out in dark green letters on the whitewashed stone between the ground and first floor windows: the double yellow lines at the curb receding to make way for a Bentley-sized parking space.

It might not be the Ritz, but it would do for now.

----------

Jeremy Wensleydale was not happy. He'd been in a state of not-happiness for several minutes now and the sensation was not showing any signs of abating. In anything, it was promising to blossom into a state of downright pissed-offness.

It had all started when Brian and Pepper had turned up on his doorstep in a condition of moderate drunkenness and begged in what they clearly thought were hushed tones to be let in; which he had consented to do lest the neighbours be woken up.

After allowing them in and ushering them into the living room, Brian had promptly taken up residence on the newly cleaned cream sofa, not considering the effect that the dirt that was caked onto the bottom of his jeans (an unfortunate consequence of the shortcut the pair had earlier taken through Tadfield Woods) would have on the pristine fabric. Pepper, displaying slightly more consideration and wherewithal had remained standing.

They had then both proceeded to start babbling incoherently about something to with Adam, socks and the balance of the universe.

"Look, what the hell are you on about?" Wensley demanded, after five minutes of trying to deduce what they were trying to tell him about Adam. He'd managed to glean that he and they been in the pub until some event, which Wensleydale hadn't quite been able to discern, had caused their friend to suddenly get up and leave.

"We were just sitting there talking about Greasy Johnson's socks," said Pepper, who currently seemed to be the more lucid of the two, "and Adam… well, he suddenly stood up, said something about the cosmic balance being thrown out of synch and how he needed to make sure everything was alright, and then he just walked out."

All of this was about as clear as mud to poor sober Wensleydale, to whom only the words 'Adam' and 'just walked out' were at all salient and meaningful. They weren't particularly surprising words: Adam did, after all, have a tendency to do the unexpected at odd and seemingly inopportune moments. However, it was clear that something about this particular incident, if one could call it that, had phrased Brian and Pepper enough to send them stumbling to him. Therefore Wensleydale, too sensible to walk out into the night and try and locate his friend but too prone to concern to leave the matter be, did the only thing he could think of: he got out his mobile phone and dialled Adam's number.

After five rings the call was answered.

_Hi Wensley_, came the very familiar and slightly careworn voice on the other end.

"Adam, are you okay?" asked Wensleydale, not quite sure how to phrase his concerns in a sensible manner. Opening a conversation with: 'Brian and Pepper have turned up at my place completely plastered and seem to think you've gone a bit weird', just didn't seem like a particularly good idea.

_I'm alright, but something important's come up,_ Adam replied, seeming, as always, to understand the reason for the late night interruption. _I need to go to the Philippines._

Wensleydale gaped. "What?"

_Look, I really can't explain everything right now, but it's pretty urgent._

"But the Philippines are on other side of the world."

_Which is why I've got to set off right now._

"B… but…."

_I'll call you again as soon as I get to Manila._

The line then went dead.

For about half a minutes Wensleydale found himself quite unable to articulate his thoughts on the information he'd just received. Eventually Pepper and Brian's intent and worried stares prompted him to deliver as cogent a summary as possible.

"Er… he says that he needs to go to Manila."

There had, over the last few years, been very few occasions on which Wensleydale, Pepper and Brian had all simultaneously found themselves all in agreement on a particular issue. Right now however they were experiencing one of those increasingly rare moments when all three were of the same mind

Adam Young had quite clearly gone mental.

----------

There were few things, Crowley decided as he stood in the moderately classy yet distinctly boring lobby of the Willow Tree Hotel, quite as entertaining to watch as a verbal battle between pompously irate, middle-aged guest and intellectually disadvantaged teenaged receptionist.

The guest in question had been checking out at the same time that Crowley was entering the building, and the demon had been unable to keep himself from, with the blink of an eye, adding £2000 pounds in room service charges to the man's bill: £1200 of it listed under 'intimate massage services'.

It had really been so very very amusing to watch as the wronged customer's face was first vacated by all colour and then flooded with the hue Crowley tended to think of as Road Rage Beetroot, as anger quickly replaced shock.

Even funnier however was the receptionist's confused notion that litigation was something that farmers did to keep the crops watered in summer.

"Young lady," the man boomed, at the receptionist's insistence that she wasn't allowed to alter the database without supervision because of what had happened the last time she'd tried it. "If you don't withdraw these ludicrous – not to mention slanderous – charges I shall be forced to take you to the highest court in the land."

The girl's jaw dropped. "What, you mean you want to take us on… on The Jeremy Kyle Show?"

Crowley snorted and wondered whether he could once again place 'advances in daytime television' on his annual of list of diabolic activities undertaken.

When the man began to loudly demand to speak to the manager however, Crowley realised that the situation would continue to escalate for quite some time; and that, entertaining as the whole thing may be, sticking around to watch it play out to its inevitably violent and expletive ridden conclusion would eat into the time he planned to devote to the practice of sloth at its most fundamental level. Thus, with a snap of his fingers the key to one of the larger rooms on the second floor materialised in his hand and he headed for the staircase.

He could always inspect the damage in the morning.

----------

"We're closing in five minutes."

White, who had been contemplating the chemical composition of his mostly untouched cider, looked up to see the barmaid once again standing over him. She was a prettily plump woman with fair skin and a friendly face whose scent indicated that she was the sort to conscientiously seek out the least environmentally damaging toiletries available. Two months ago White would have taken great delight in willing a few rather nasty little chemicals to the bottle of rosewater she kept upstairs, but today the thought had held no appeal.

They'd been fascinating to listen to, she and her friend: the way the conversation had gone from trivial to serious to salacious to sardonic to heartfelt and back again. White had never really taken the time to observe humans interacting outside of what one might call his specialised sphere before; where exchanges seemed to centre either around how laughably implausible it was that anything could go wrong with all the fail-safe systems in place or the rather more fraught question of how the hell the leak had happened and whether now would be a good time to book those tickets to Venezuela. It was all so very… odd. He'd never thought of them being otherwise engaging before.

"Closing?" he queried.

She nodded in a slightly apprehensive fashion, taking a quick glance behind her as if to make sure her friend was still there.

"We always shut at eleven," she said, pointing to a clock on the wall that proclaimed it to already be twenty past the hours. "You can finish your drink before you go though," she added.

He considered the idea for a moment. Alcohol was a relatively simple chemical that, on passing through the human digestive system, was broken down into a multitude of little poisons: and he'd earlier, despite the fact that his form could manifest far more horrific toxins at will, felt an odd compulsion to experience what the process felt like first hand. After all, having a form that sprung from the collective human consciousness meant that it shared more or less the same anatomical structure, no matter how twisted and warped.

However, now that it was in front of him the sight of the lukewarm, hours old beverage seemed somehow unappealing.

"No," he said after a long pause. "I think I'll go now."

"You've got somewhere to stay, haven't you?" she asked, picking up the glass containing the unappealing liquid, voice tinged with something that was almost-but-not-quite like discomfort.

"Oh yes," White replied. "I'm staying in the field behind the Richardson & Sons Abattoir."

The barmaid gaped at him. "You've parked a caravan up _there_?"

"I don't have a caravan."

Her expression when from surprised to utterly incredulous. "You mean, you've… you've pitched a tent?

He shook his head and, dropping a handful of extremely corroded looking coins on the table, got up and left. He couldn't see what was so shocking about spending the night in a tent: humans did it all the time. But then, they did sometimes tend to be a little reluctant to spend prolonged periods of time in the areas where their food was killed. He wasn't quite sure why. Most of the really harmful chemicals got added later on in the ready meal construction process.

As he stepped out into the cool night air, he recalled the work he'd done with Sable: the time spent aiding the development of the diet pills and suggesting 'improvements' to the MEALS(TM) production processes. It had been camaraderie of a sort, and he experienced a twinge of something that he couldn't name, but that was… not positive, at the thought that such a thing was unlikely to happen again.

It was an experience that prompted him to do something he had never before attempted or indeed experienced the need to attempt.

He pushed the thought from his mind.

----------

At half past three in the morning the whole world seemed to be at a lull.

In a passably expensive room at the Willow Tree Hotel the demon Crowley snoozed soundly.

In a clean, tidy and distinctly middle-class home in Lower Tadfield Wensleydale, having given into sleep after several hours of worrying, dozed uneasily in his bed. On the floor, his two friends lay in a deep sleep, blessedly unaware of the hangovers they were going to suffer through in the morning.

In a Devonshire police cell slept a man who'd been arrested for causing affray and damage to property after venting his 'perfectly reasonable' displeasure at a thoroughly outrageous bill.

In a room above a Devonshire pub a soft-hearted barmaid experienced uneasy dreams about a pale man with nowhere to call home.

In a quiet, if foul smelling, field Pollution stood staring up at the sky and, in a state of mind that was almost trancelike.

And in a plane about to take of from Gatwick Airport an Antichrist fretted. It wasn't the mundane, everyday kind of fretting he did after forgetting to pay the phone bill or saying something unkind to a friend whilst in the grip of annoyance. It wasn't even the 'I know that I could make my kind, friendly and dog loving neighbour's chronic and debilitating illness go away, but if I did it would be the thin end of the wedge that would lead to me being obliged to help everybody' type fretting. This was full on, fate of the world is about to be to be decided, variety fretting; and he wasn't sure if he was dealing with it correctly.

Nine years ago an entity had told him that one day there might be an end to Famine, Pollution or even War, but that Death, which is creations shadow, would endure until the end of creation. Adam had contended the latter part of the statement on the basis that, well, who knew what the rules were apart from the one who'd set them, but he'd accepted the first premise with fairly little consideration. Hideously optimistic it might be; but it did seem possible that one day humanity might make a considered and honest collective appraisal of itself and somehow find a way to permanently send three of the Four into retirement.

What he hadn't considered however was that one of the Horseperson's might just, well, stop of their own accord. It was one thing for one of them to retire owing to decline in opportunities: but to just cease when they had all the potential in the world? It was dangerous. Perverse and counter-intuitive as it was, it was very very dangerous. The type of very very dangerous that led to threads snagging in the material of the universe.

Adam had been sensing that something was slightly off kilter for several weeks, but it had only been when Pepper had commented that despite her commitment to recycling she though that Greasy Johnson's socks belong on a toxic waste dump, that the realisation had dawned.

He knew that couldn't very well make Pollution to return to active duty (well, no, he could, but the consequences of _that_ would probably be far worse in the long run than any trouble the anthropomorphic personification could induce). So he was going to do the only thing he could think of and seek out what one might call a 'stop gap measure', until the situation could be resolved. Unfortunately, being the Antichrist didn't guarantee infallibility and he couldn't be certain that what he was about to attempt would work.

In the seat next to him Dog, sensing his worry, gave him a comforting nuzzle. It wasn't much, but it eased the anxiety a little. Adam tried not to gratuitously use the powers that had been conferred upon him, but some rules were so ridiculous that he felt it morally justifiable to nudge reality in such a manner that quarantine and seating exceptions were made by British Airways for really well behaved Hell Hounds.

As the announcement that take off was imminent came over the intercom he lay back in the seat and shut his eyes. If he was going to stop reality from fraying round the edges he should probably try and get a few hours sleep first.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Huge thank you to CaptainEmo and Seregwen Morthil for the kind reviews. In answer to Seregwen's comment about perhaps giving a little more away, I will try, but giving away too much at this point would probably ruin some of the surprises I've got planned :D

Crowley awoke to faint strains of birdsong, the gentle pitter-patter of the fine spring rain hitting the window… and the sound of the couple in Room 36 having loud and very enthusiastic sex. There was, he thought, as he took a look at the bedside clock and realised that he might have taken his pursuit of sloth a couple of hours too far, few things quite as annoying as entering what probably going to be a day of very tedious reconnaissance to the accompaniment of somebody else enjoying themselves so noisily, vigorously and in German.

Dragging himself from the comfortable little cocoon of blankets he'd somehow unconsciously managed to create for himself during his twelve hour sojourn from the realm of the wakeful, the demon got up, materialised a designer suit, shoes and sunglasses, and walked out into the hallway; the door locking itself after him. Being, as it was, half past eleven in the morning there weren't many guests around: most having got up at less decadent hours in order to 'make the most of the day' (an activity that invariably involved taking a short walk in the picturesque countryside before taking in as many of the quaint little antique shops as physically possible). As he walked down the clean and tastefully uninteresting staircase and into the lobby, he couldn't help but give a small smirk at the fact that the computer monitor that resided on the – now rather battered looking – reception desk was no the one that had been there the previous evening. The boarded up window behind said reception desk, indicated the probable trajectory of the absent monitor.

Suddenly struck by the realisation that his precious Bentley could have been in path of the shattered glass, the demon hurried outside, ready to wish away any bumps, scratches or dents and curse everybody involved in the previous night's little fracas with embarrassing ailments should any of the aforementioned injuries have been inflicted upon the car. Thankfully for everybody concerned the debris on the pavement outside the hotel had stopped short of the spot where the Bentley was parked. Satisfied that no harm had come to the vehicle, Crowley mentally debated whether to drive to his temptation target's place of work or not. He eventually opted to walk on the basis that, while tearing around the town at 180mph might incite a fair bit of wrath, he'd get a better sense of the place and its overall sin potential on foot.

Feeling moderately content and relatively relaxed, the demon therefore set off down the street in the direction that one of the tastefully painted and peculiarly un-vandalised signposts indicated the Willowholme Town Library to be located. Pausing for a moment, he made a small gesture with his left hand and an extremely strong, yet highly localised, gust of wind spun the signs around, so that the arrow purporting to indicate the location of the Pennington Museum of Fine Art actually pointed in the direction of the public toilets, and the arrow labelled Public Toilets instructed the unwary tourist to head in the direction of the Willowholme Water Gardens.

There were some temptations a demon just couldn't resist.

It was, he thought, as he walked past the rows of trinket selling establishments, tea rooms and self-consciously rustic-looking pubs (with distinctly un-rustic prices on the charmingly presented menu boards), not such an irksome place as he had first feared. The people didn't seem to be as sickly sweet and wholesome as their chocolate box cottages might have suggested, and the quaint facades of the shop fronts concealed a veritable hotbed of greed, covetousness and vanity. This did not, of course, diminish the general lack of style (there was after all a horrendous amount of lilac in the town centre's overall colour scheme), but it did give the infernal interloper something to work with should he, she or it so choose.

After what was a surprisingly pleasant fifteen minute walk in the rain (none of which actually came into contact with Crowley or any item of his apparel) the demon arrived at his destination. The Willowhome Library was a surprisingly large, mock-gothic structure that resided, along with the town council offices, job centre, Citizens Advice Bureau and the shops that sold things that had some kind of use value other than dust gathering conversation pieces, on the west side of town. It was still all very quaint and respectable, but there was a refreshing absence of lilac in immediate area.

Making a mental note to pay a visit to the town council offices later in the week and nudge a few of the senior clerical staff further along the path to embezzlement, Crowley sauntered through the library's archway entrance, noting with amusement the way the oak door was being kept open by a brick in a fire bucket rather than the expensive cast iron doorstop that currently lay upturned in a corner of the entrance hall.

A glance at the floor plan on the wall informed him that the _Lending Library and Open Internet Access_ were located behind the door to his right, the _Reference Library_ on the one to his left and the _Willowholme History Society Archives_ up the stairs, along with the _Local Crafts' Exhibition_.

Not quite sure which section he'd find his temptee in; having been given nothing more than a picture and incomplete blood scrawled parchment dossier to go on, he opted for the door to his right.

The _Lending Library and Open Internet Access_ turned out to be a cavernous room that was rather too large for its meagre stock of literature and even more meagre selection of non-fiction. An observation made all the more salient by the fact that most of the activity therein currently seemed to be occurring in the small enclave of computers on the far side of the room.

The enquiries desk was currently vacated so, adopting his best 'sharp-suited businessman from out of town' persona he walked over to Loans and Returns.

There was only member of staff manning the desk: a very young man in a Dethklok t-shirt and baggy jeans, who had his iPod switched and appeared to be in the process of sketching a pretty good, if somewhat obscene, picture of two women on a chaise lounge. As Crowley approached he looked up from his drawing and took out the earphones.

"You need any help?" the young man asked, clearly enthusiastic to interact with somebody who wasn't a seventy-eight year old Granny on a hunt for the Catherine Cooksons. His nametag identified him as Leon Waters: Library Assistant.

"I'm looking for a Mr. Howard Goode," said Crowley.

"I think he's out on his lunch break at the moment," said Leon.

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

Leon shrugged. "Difficult to say, Isobel lets him come and go when he wants."

"Isobel?"

"Head librarian." The boy's tones suggested a large helping of annoyance and a small dollop of animosity.

Crowley made a sympathetic face. "Ah, the Big Boss."

"Hah, yeah. The Big Boss." Leon gave a snort. "What are looking for him for, anyway? Not the police are you?" He grinned at the thought. "That'd be a laugh, Howard Goode: Fugitive from the Law."

The demon shook his head. "Not the police," he said. "Although you never know with some types: it's always the quiet bloke who kept himself to himself."

"Oh, Howard isn't the quiet type; he's just… what's that word, sanctified, or something like that."

"Sanctimonious," supplied Crowley.

"Sanctimonious, yeah, that's the one. Always has to go and get preachy about everything. Can't make a joke without him going on about how it's wrong to make fun of 'important issues'."

"Yeah, I used to know a few people like that," said Crowley, images of several notable Seraphim springing to mind.

"Anyway, what do you want to see him about?" said Leon, clearly determined to have curiosity sated. "You don't look like anybody from his church group."

Crowley smirked. "I'm a lawyer, but I can't really divulge the reason I need to see him. You know, confidentially and all that."

This, of course, only served to pique curiosity further. "Don't tell me he's just received some big, massive inheritance?"

"Sorry, not at liberty to say." The raised eyebrow and quirked grin with which the demon accompanied the statement provided a resounding, if non-verbal, 'yes, your irritating colleague is indeed about to join the ranks of the very rich'. He could practically feel the waves of envy that at once rolled from Leon's form. "You don't mind if I stick around here until he gets back, do you? Only, I wasn't given his home address."

Leon shrugged, clearly trying to mask the fact that he was deeply intrigued by Crowley's presence. "If you like," he said, before adding. "He's staying in some run-down little bungalow in Summerstorm Point at the moment."

"Summerstorm Point?" queried Crowley, vaguely recalling seeing a road sign with the words on.

"Tiny little place about eight miles down the road: mostly just a bunch of holiday lets. Lives in this crappy little hole so he can donate his money to charity, apparently."

There was a burst of throaty laughter to the right. Crowley snapped his head round to see a short and extremely thin woman with frizzy ginger hair regarding Leon with an expression of amused cynicism.

"I hear the trade in London bridges is booming at the moment," she said, with an exaggerated shake of her head. Her nametag proclaimed her to be the Director of IT Services.

"You don't think Mr. Goode's as altruistic as he makes out."

She snorted. "He doesn't 'make anything out' he just lets people assume that's the case because he's too embarrassed to correct them. Doesn't want anybody to know about his little habit."

Crowley cocked an eyebrow. "Habit, what kind: drugs, gambling or whores?"

"Gambling… well, stock market," she said. "Lost a bomb six months ago."

"She doesn't know that for a fact," said Leon, rolling his eyes.

"Yes I do," she protested, looking affronted. "Usually I wouldn't consider it any of my business, but he uploaded this bug-ridden piece of market tracking crap onto one of my computers. He hadn't even configured it properly." She spoke in the tones of one possessed of the firm conviction that an inability to perform a basic spyware scan was a moral failing.

Leon laughed. "Jenny gets pissy about people coming in here to use the public computer facilities."

The woman sighed. "Look, if they could be bothered to use some kind of basic reasoning ability, I wouldn't care. But most of them can't be bothered to even look at the 'beginners guide to switching the bloody thing on' I had printed out."

Crowley gave a small, sympathetic laugh and made a mental note to crash the library network at some point in the near future.

"Still," she added, mouth curling into a sly smile, "it is fun to watch their faces when the browser crashes while trying to upload some dodgy fetish site. You wouldn't believe how many people 'accidentally clicked on the wrong link'. Unfortunately, I've had to block anything that offend delicate sensibilities since Mr. Naylor of the Concerned Citizens Brigade wrote that letter of complaint to the Willowholme Observer two weeks ago. Of course, what the repressed old sod doesn't seem to realise is that we've all – well, all apart from Howard – noticed him repeatedly ogling the pictures of the Statue of David in the Comprehensive Guide to Classical Sculpture. It's rather sad really."

Leon sniggered. "At least he's not as bad as the Ordinance Survey Guy. Tell him about that one, Jen."

She looked at Crowley and shook her head in the manner of one who'd previously thought they'd seen it all, but been proved very wrong. "Two weeks ago on Wednesday we caught a guy pleasuring himself in the reference library. Not anything _that_ out of the ordinary, you might think, given some of the things that go on in this town; until you noticed that his wank material of choice was the Ordinance Survey."

The demon considered this for a moment, briefly dwelling, once again, on the fact that the many perversions and lustful temptations Hell had to offer really weren't as bizarre and morbidly fascinating as half of the things humans came up with themselves.

"Which county?" he asked, eventually.

"West Midlands."

"You get some real weirdoes coming in here," said Leon, tone strongly implying that presence of said weirdoes was one of the few pleasures of the job.

"Like that bloke over there," muttered Jenny, eyes suddenly drawn to something happening in the direction of the entrance.

Crowley turned to see who or what had caught the woman's eye and promptly blanched.

There, coming through the door and walking slowly in his direction, was the pale and rather muddy worldly manifestation of Pollution.

"Oh, bloody He- Heav- Manchester."

----------

White was feeling… better.

Sometime during the night something very strange had occurred. One moment he'd been staring at the sky contemplating the futility of his existence, the next he'd, well… found himself lying on the sodden ground, bright light shining down upon him and a very small Yorkshire Terrier sniffing his face, while the creature's disgusted owner order it to get away from the 'filthy tramp'. He had very little memory of what had transpired during the space between his last recollected instance of clear, coherent thought the previous night and the moment at which he had become saliently aware of the dog sniffing that morning, but he was certain that the… the blankness had been punctuated by images of some kind. Even stranger perhaps, was that, following a brief period of not being entirely certain who, where or what he was, he'd started to feel more able to deal with his existence, futile or otherwise.

After a half hour bout of standing in the field, doing some further contemplation and receiving some extremely strange looks from the employees of the nearby abattoir's, he'd decided to investigate whether his appreciation for the desecration of the environment had returned. He had first produced handful of sweet wrappers from his formerly white trousers and scattered them about the field. Feeling a surge of interest as he saw them dancing about in the breeze, he had, with great hopefulness, proceeded to tentatively allowed a pool of engine oil to form on the patch of grass where he stood.

Alas, despite the fact that the morning light hitting the petrochemical puddle in a manner that induced the brightest possible rainbow sheen, he did not find it particularly enthralling. In fact, whilst attempting to lose himself in the old pleasure of watching the oil seep into the soil, he found himself distracted by the antics of a large Labrador and its long-suffering owner. However, he did not, much to his surprise, feel the same distressing emptiness at this turn of events as he had during previous weeks. It was still there, of course, that deep and abiding sense of purposelessness, but it didn't trouble him as much. Indeed, he was at once seized by the urge to go forth and do something about it.

He'd therefore found himself heading back towards the centre of town and - having discovered the previous evening that humans had a greater range of thought and worldly understanding than he'd ever previously thought possible - accosting people he met along the road with queries as to whether they had any idea how one might go about comprehending the meaning of existence. Sprung though he had from the minds of men, it was still only a very small and specific part of the human psyche that had birthed him.

Most, on seeing his mud-caked form and placid expression, backed away slowly. Some advised him that the best place to find the answers to questions like that was the bottom of a pint glass. However, having already attempted this the previous evening, he decided to plump for the suggestion an elderly woman with a toy poodle had given him.

He'd decided to give the library a try.

On entering the place from which the sign in the entrance assured him he could borrow knowledge, White was instantly struck by the presence of two things: the tiny, thin woman he'd come to know the previous night as 'friend of the barmaid' and more… surprisingly, the demon who'd once prevented him from carrying out his ultimate purpose. They, it seemed, also seemed surprised to see him.

It was the woman who spoke first.

"I see that basic personal hygiene and common courtesy aren't your strongpoints?" she muttered, pulling a face at the oily footprints he was leaving on the floorboards.

"No," he agreed, before turning his focus to the demon. "You were one of the ones that frustrated my purpose," he said, drawing nearer.

The demon swallowed and began to back away. "Er… about that…."

"I was very angry with all of you."

"Look… I can explain, we-"

"I'm not anymore though."

"Your not?" said the demon hopefully, looking as though he couldn't decided whether to run away or sink to the floor in relief.

"Because I've lost interest in my purpose."

"You have?" The demon's expression went from panicked to perplexed.

"Yes, which is why I've come here."

"Well, you're in the right place," said a young man behind the desk marked Loans and Returns.

"I am?"

He nodded. "Yeah, we don't have a clue about our purposes either."

"Speak for yourself," said the woman, crossing her arms.

White felt a flush of disappointment. "So none of you comprehend the meaning of existence either?"

"Well, you could try the philosophy section," said the youth. "It's on one of the shelves in the row behind the westerns."

"Stay away from the Sartre and Nietzsche if you're looking for meaning though," advised the woman, whose expression was currently one of the less immediately fathomable ones. If he had to guess he would have gone for deeply annoyed yet at the same time surprised and rather amused. "And whatever you do don't touch any of my computers without washing your hands first."

Without a word he headed in the direction the young man had indicated. The response of the two humans did not make him very hopeful, but he decided that it had to be worth a try. After a few steps however he paused for a second and turned back to the woman.

"You're very thin," he said. "My colleague would like you." And there it was again, the uncomfortable sensation that had accompanied his thoughts of Sable the previous night. He responded to the feeling the same way he had the last time he experienced it.

The whole, pushing things out of ones mind thing, really was a useful skill.

----------

Pepper was always surly when hungover. It was a fact that the other three Them had discovered a few years ago during their first forays into the exciting, illicit and – in hindsight – incredibly embarrassing realm of underage drinking. Having renounced violence shortly after an altercation at Brian's thirteenth birthday party, which had left Michael Smith from 9c with four stitches and a broken finger, she never resorted to physical aggression. However, the general air of pissed-offness she was wont to acquire following a night of too many pints of cheap cider, could be pretty damned intimidating. Usually, Wensleydale would avoid her until the coffee and aspirin kicked in, but on this particular afternoon that really wasn't an option.

"I went to see Adam's parents before you woke up," he ventured, as he searched the kitchen cupboards for something with which to sooth her headache. "They seemed as if everything was okay."

"What do you mean, they seemed okay?" she demanded, slouched in one of the dining chairs and looking very nauseous indeed. "He took off to the Philippines in the middle of the night."

"They said that he was on a short-notice trip to visit a pen-friend there and that he'd be back in a few days."

"But that doesn't make any sense. I mean, we know he's got a pen-friend, but Warlock's American."

Wensleydale sighed, not sure what to make of any of it.

As he gave up on locating anything of a painkilling persuasion in the cupboards and embarked upon a search of the draws his mobile phone, which was currently residing on the dining table began to ring. Pepper, clearly a tad sensitive to high pitched ringing noises at the present time groaned and covered her ears.

"Hello," said Wensleydale, hitting the answer call key.

_Hi Wensley, it's Adam, I'm in Dubai at the moment waiting for my transfer._

"Adam, please tell me what's going on, we're really worried about you."

_There's a bit of a crisis going on with some other friends of mine and I need to help sort it out. I'm fine, but other people won't be if I don't do anything."_

Wensleydale fought the urge to yell. "You're being crytic again."

_I know, it's just… just too difficult to explain right now. But you have to believe that nothing bad is going to happen to me._

And with those words Wensleydale did believe that Adam was okay. They did not however dissipate the frustration and irritation. "Well, just remember that taking off for the other side of the world in the middle of the night can sometimes really freak people out," he snapped.

_I'm sorry, Wensley._ Adam's voice seemed genuinely penitent.

"Look, get back safely, okay."

_I will… Oh, and Wensley._

"Yeah?"

_The Alka Seltzer's in the second draw of your parents living room cabinet._

Wensleydale gaped. "How did-"

_You've got a hungover Pepper on your hands, haven't you._

"Well, yes, but…."

_Anyway, I've got to get to the departure gate, so speak to you later, all right._

"Bye Adam."

Wensleydale turned to Pepper.

"Well?" she queried, face indicating a great deal of physical distress.

He shrugged. "I think he'll be okay."

She nodded. "He always is."

The Alka Seltzer did turn out to be in the second draw of the living room cabinet: a fact that came as a very big relief when groans began to emanate from the form still residing on the living room floor. A hungover Brian was, after all, far worse than a hungover Pepper. She might get surly, but Brian _whined_.

----------

The first thing that Crowley noticed on emerging from his moment of blind panic, were the two expectant faces looking at him.

"You know him then?" said Leon, grinning happily at the way the day was playing out to be far more interesting than expected.

"Old acquaintance," muttered Crowley.

Unlike Leon, Jenny was positively scowling. "Cheeky little bastard, isn't he."

Leon smirked. "Jen's sensitive about her weight."

"You'd be too if the only things that fit you were in the children's section". She pursed her lips in annoyance. "Anyway, who is _he_? I saw him in the Cat and Mouse last night - my mate Gail works there - and he spent the entire time sat in the corner, staring at this half empty pint of cider."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Cider?"

"He told Gail he was crashing in the field outside the abattoir. I think she was a bit worried about him to tell the truth. She wondered if he was some kind of mental patient, but my guess was broke artist or starving poet, he seems a little too pretty and pretentious for crazy homeless bloke."

"He's a performance artist," said Crowley. It was true, in a sense. Nothing attracted morbid and guilty fascination like a spectacular ecological disaster: well, apart from a really brutal war, perhaps. Famine, surprisingly, didn't tend to attract that much attention: but then, the average human attention span was probably a little too short to allow the sustained focus needed to become invested in the prolonged and torturous process that was millions of people starving to death.

"Well, he's certainly having the requisite existential crisis," said Jenny. "Though, I really don't see why he has to forgo regular bathing to do it."

Crowley gave a snort but didn't say anything. Relieved though he was not to be on the receiving end of some kind of Horsepersonly revenge plot, the talk about losing purpose was frankly a bit disturbing. The Horseperson's didn't have a purpose, they _were_ a purpose.

He was also a little, well, _curious_ about what was going on; but then inquisitiveness always had been one of his major failings.

"He does seem a bit confused though," said Leon suddenly, a slight edge of guilt to his voice.

Jenny rolled her eyes. "Of course he's a bit confused; it's an art school requirement."

Leon ignored her and looked at Crowley. "Maybe you could talk to him, make sure he's alright and stuff."

Crowley considered this for a moment. Every ounce of good sense in his body told him to leave the building as quickly as demonically possible, but there was a very small and extremely insistent part that really wanted to know what drove an apocalyptical personification to the philosophy shelf of a badly stocked semi-rural library.

"I suppose I _could_ have a quick word."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks to CaptainEmo and Manicr for the kind comments on the dialogue and characterisation (I defnitely agree on Pollution being 'the artistic one').

-

The philosophy shelf of the Willowholme Lending Library transpired, much to White's disappointment, to consist of a very limited number of mostly dull looking tomes. There were a few bright paperbacks amongst the greying blues and reds of the aged hard-covers, but further inspection revealed them to be self-help guides that had ostensibly been dumped there by a lazy reader who couldn't be bothered to locate and return them to the correct shelf. Still, they were glossier than their dourer and more appropriately located companions, and White – momentarily distracted from his quest to determine the meaning of life, the universe and everything – found himself idly picking them out and inspecting the blurbs on the back. _How to Win Friends and Influence People_ did not seem particularly relevant to his existence. He had, after all, never had much difficulty convincing people to put their faith in the fails-safes on the toxic waste containment units. Similarly useless looking was _Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus_, though the title was ironically amusing when one took the embodiment of War into account. However, _Understanding Your Inner You_ did pique his interest. It promised to: "_…help the reader get a sense of the place in they want to take in the world by revealing to them the needs of their inner self"_ and appeared to be comprised predominantly of self-test multiple choice quizzes. It was a format White approved of. With the exception of the more theoretical of the physics and chemistry papers (one sometimes needed a little help generating ideas) he had never really been one for reading long blocks of text.

As he considered the first question, a rather banal yet puzzling query as to whether a) family, b) friends or c) making more money was most important to you, White became aware that the demon was moving in his direction. As he decided to move on from said question, owing to the fact that alternative d) comprehending existence was not available (an oversight that he quickly rectified with the aid of a leaky biro he managed to dig out of his pockets), the former Serpent of Eden drew up alongside him.

"I helped write that one, you know," the demon said, by way of opening.

"A book on self-improvement for humans?"

"Best way to lead them astray is to tell them that it's the right thing."

"Oh, like Sable's diet books."

The demon visibly bristled at this comparison. "Look, a lot of people suspect that they're greedy, unkind and selfish, but don't want to see themselves that way. I give them what they want: books that'll tell them they're good, ethical people without necessitating any lifestyle change bigger than a furniture rearrangement and twenty-minutes a day of looking in the mirror and repeating a series of affirmations about how wonderful they are. End result is that they're as greedy, unkind and selfish as ever, but they've now got added narcissism, from all the mirror gazing, and smugness, from thinking that they're all enlightened."

"Does that actually work?" enquired White, mildly intrigued. He'd always known that human's had some rather pronounced tendencies towards unfounded hopefulness – it was after all the reason why he'd been so successful in convincing all of those managing directors that corners could be cut on the chemical plant safety systems – but he'd never thought that the human desire to perceive the world as they wanted could make them that, well, distant from reality.

The demon gave a small smirk. "Never underestimate the power of telling people that the things they like to do are all completely moral, upstanding and correct."

"Perhaps that's why so many of them like to deny my existence, or minimise it, at least," he said. "But then they never do seem to notice me until it's too late, and I'm usually forgotten very soon afterwards… though not always." An image of Chernobyl sprang into his mind, causing him to experience a wave of something that was very much like, but slightly different from, satisfaction: causing him to briefly wonder if this was what nostalgia felt like. Sable had during the times they had worked together talked about experiencing it, but then, the personification of Famine had been around for so much longer than Pollution had. Well, that wasn't entirely true, White had a vague idea that he'd been gestating in the minds of men, since the first forge released the first burst of toxic smoke into the atmosphere, but he hadn't truly been birthed until old Pestilence had started to wane.

"They're noticing you now." It was a casual observation, spoken in a surprisingly unloaded manner, but White nonetheless found himself tensing at the words.

"Things have changed."

"I'll bet, now you're attracting attention like nobody's business."

"I am?" He had of course noticed that people were taking far more notice of him than usual, but for some reason the 'like nobody's business' part made him a little uneasy.

"Well, you've certainly caught their imagination." The demon jabbed a finger in the direction of the two library staff. "He thinks you might be disoriented, confused and most probably suffering from some kind of mental illness. She's certain that you're suffering from some kind of mental illness, but just assumes that's situation normal for starving artist."

"Starving artist?" queried White, somewhat surprised by the assumption. True, like Sable and Carmine, he had considered the fruits of his function to have great aesthetic merit, but he'd never once expected humans – philistines in denial of their own desire for self-destruction that they were – to label him an 'artist'.

"I told them that you did performance art," said the demon, "which is true, in a way. I mean, those sunsets you get these days because of the crap in the upper atmosphere are pretty bloody awesome"

White nodded, feeling, despite his current apathy towards his designated occupation, a tiny surge of pleasure at the very-nearly compliment the demon had just paid him. "Yes, I suppose it was true."

"I mean, you're too bloody pretty to pass for a common-or-garden rough sleeper."

"I am?" he said, feeling another – though this time rather less explicable - tiny surge of pleasure. Sable had called him pretty several times during their acquaintance. The elder Horseperson had clapped an arm around his shoulders and told him that, just as his own visage reflected ascetism and the strange virtue humanity seemed to attribute to the denial of the things needed to sustain life , War's reflective the primal seductiveness of the urge to bash one's neighbour over the head for a perceived minor slight and Pestilence's the unavoidable and inevitable ugliness of decay; Pollution's form was beautiful because the creation of pretty, shiny, appealingly-packaged objects was what truly drove the destruction of the environment.

_We complement each other so well_ the personification of Famine, had once said, after Pollution had told him about a new zero-nutrient substance he'd stumbled across, which would appeal to the taste-buds but lead to the creation of several nasty waste products in its production. _I'm the direst frustration of need, you're the most frivolous indulgence of want_.

The comparison had both delighted and irritated him. Delighted, because as exhilarated as he had been with the fruits of the fulfilment of his function, it was… pleasing to have some kind of acknowledgement. Irritated because the way He'd phrased it seemed to imply that he felt that White's role was somewhat secondary to his own. Still, irritated or knew he knew that he'd miss Sable: the only other entity in the universe to who he'd developed any sort of, what was the word, _attachment_.

"Hey, are you all right?" said the demon suddenly. A worried – well, more worried – expression suddenly consuming his features.

"All right?"

"Yeah, you looked as though you were a bit upset for a moment there."

"Why would I be upset, it's not in my nature to experience any great level of distress?"

"Yes, but – if you don't mind me pointing it out – your nature seems to have changed since the last time I saw you." The demon swallowed, an indication, White could tell, that he knew he was taking a risk in bringing 'the last time' they saw each other up. Until recently White had been extremely put out about the aborted apocalypse and his banishment back into the collective human consciousness, and had made a mental note to do something unpleasant to the angel and demon who, should they ever cross his path. However, now that he'd lost interest in his intended purpose the whole matter of the Apocalypse that Wasn't was more or less a moot point.

Besides, the wary interest that the demon was showing in his existence was an experience that felt – for now, at least – to be more positive than negative.

"My function no longer interests me. The aesthetics of it no longer enthral me and without seeing beauty on the play of light on an oil slick or the starkness rainforest turned barren there doesn't seem to be any point in continuing."

"Oh bloody Manchester," said the demon, a look of horrified realisation dawning in his eyes. "You're having a sodding crisis of creative direction. You're… you're a-"

The demon did not get to finish elaborating on what White was, owing to the fact that the thin computer-protective woman picked that moment to tap him on the shoulder.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said, expression still faintly amused, "but I thought I'd let you know that Howard's just called to say that he won't be coming back to work this afternoon. Said he sprained his wrist trying to help a pensioner change a tyre and could I pass his home address onto you." She pressed a scrap of paper into the demon's hand, before turning her attention to White.

"Oh and Leon's had an attack of social conscience and wants to know if you'd like to have some of his old clothes."

White wasn't sure quite how to answer. He'd always been the one to offer to lend things to others. Things that tended to be more along the lines of bolts that fell out two minutes after you'd used them to repair the containment hold and Geiger Counters that always declared the radiation levels to be within safe limits, than clothing. But it was still a novel experience.

Clearly taking his lack of response as a negative she shrugged. "Well, if you decide that you want them just go and ask him."

"Look, if you want to attract less attention it'd probably be a good idea to change into something less muddy," said the demon once she was out of earshot. "Though personally I wouldn't touch the kid's cast-offs with a ten-foot Styx bargepole."

White considered this; the stares he'd been receiving did make him uncomfortable, despite the novelty of the situation.

"What kind of thing should I wear then?" he asked.

The demon made a subtle but physically impossible gesture and a paper carrier bag emblazoned with the words Emporio Armani on appeared in his hand.

"You could try this," he suggested, handing it over.

Two months ago White would have been highly offended at the thought of somebody trying to give him a gift in such clearly biodegradable packaging, but right now he felt rather intrigued.

The demon swallowed, the nervousness seeming to return with a vengeance. White wondered if he thought that he'd overstepped some kind of mark. "Anyway, I, er, better be going. Got to see a man about his damnation."

And with that the demon Crowley fled. Well, it wasn't so much overt fleeing as a really fast saunter, but there was a definite hint of escape about it.

Curious, White opened the bag.

Dagon, Lord of the Files, Master of Madness, Under Duke of the Seventh Torment, prided himself on his ability to keep abreast of current events. Being the sort of being who, whilst by no means weak, was no match in terms of raw diabolic power of the fallen Seraphim and Cherubim whom now formed the bulk of Hell's nobility, he had been forced to attain his position in the upper echelons of the Diabolic Civil Service by keeping his bulbous eyes firmly fixed on the indiscretions of his peers, his ears (well, those of his underlings at least) to the ground and filling a role that was beneath the dignity and beyond the ability of his more diabolically endowed colleagues.

You found out a lot when you organised the filing.

Right now, Dagon was interrogating a succubus of middling demonic rank about her knowledge of what she'd observed on the earthly visitation from which she'd just returned. To any human who'd worked in an office environment it was a sight which looked near-identical to the time honoured practise of 'gossiping at the water cooler'.

They'd be wrong, of course. No self-respecting denizen of the Pit would be caught discorporated consuming anything as bland as water, even if it was of the extra-foetid variety. The content of _this_ drinks dispenser was one-hundred percent Tears of the Tormented.

"Well, it was certainly very different from the last time I was up there," she said. "There I was, in a physically implausible position with a member of the European Parliament, when his eyes suddenly glazed over and he muttered something about needing to make sure all his colleagues were using energy saving light bulb at completely lost interest. Then the next night I tried the Head of PR for a cosmetics firm and she stops half-way through, jumps up and declares she's just had a brilliant idea for a high speed vehicle that doesn't rely on carbon-based fuel. I don't know what's got into them, I really don't. I mean, I would have noticed if there were any angels in the immediate area, but there weren't."

Had Dagon been, say, Duke Hastur or Prince Belphegor, he would have doubtless felt the need to snidely and loudly put this down to her losing her touch. However, Dagon being possessed of a tad more insightfulness than the majority of his infernal brethren (though he was still distinctly mediocre by human standards) and of a mind that the best time to talk negatively of somebody when they were out of earshot, did not immediately sneeringly dismiss this example of human strangeness as a consequence of seduction failure.

"Tell me," he said. "Did you notice anything else strange – well, stranger than usual – going on up there?"

The succubus gave a long sigh. "There were an awful lot of people who seemed to have developed a fixation with recycling and that tedious television thing of theirs seemed to be constantly abuzz with stories about effective green energy. Anybody would think that Pollution had gone on holiday."

For a few moments Dagon quietly pondered this statement.

The idea that one of the Four would abandon their post whilst at the height of their influence was utterly unthinkable.

But then, so had been the idea that the Antichrist would decide that he wanted to preserve the Apocalypse.

With a curt smile he looked the succubus in the eye. "Excuse me a moment, I've just remembered a soul contract I need to counter sign."

Technically, there was only one time in Hell, and that was Too Late. But the administrative wing had long ago realised that this wasn't particularly conducive to good organisation, and they had informally adopted what they liked to call Sisyphus Mean Time: with the clerical pseudo-day based around the time it took for the hapless damned soul to roll his boulder up to the point on the hill where it would inevitably start rolling back down.

Thus it was that at half past 'About a Sixth of the Way Up' a memo was discretely sent to one of the imps in Admissions.

At quarter to 'Just Under Half Way' he received a note back from Nasty the Imp, stating that there had been a small decline in the number of souls admitted over the last earth month, but that over the last two days the drop had been dramatic.

By twenty past 'Ohshitohshitohshit She's Rolling Down Again' A Dark Council had been called: a function to which the perpetually social climbing Lord of the Files felt rather smug to be invited.

As chance would have it, twenty past 'Ohshitohshitohshit She's Rolling Down Again' corresponded with the point of time, on earth, that Adam's plane touched down.

The flight from Gatwick to Manila had, most of passengers agreed, been remarkable in its uneventfulness. The brief stop-off in Dubai had been, well, brief, and nobody's luggage had been lost, damaged or accidentally sent to Oslo. Some of them had idly wondered why the quiet, fair-haired young man in seat 13a had been allowed to bring his pet dog on board, but inevitably concluded that there was probably a good reason for it. After all, it had been a very friendly, if rather scruffy, creature.

Adam himself was feeling slightly more focussed and alert for the sleep he'd managed to get on the flight: though it had not completely extinguished his fretfulness about the situation. Still, he was here now and had to try and do _something_ to mitigate the short term effects of Pollution's indefinite sabbatical, even if he wasn't quite certain whether the _something_ in question was going to work or not.

It was therefore with some trepidation that he got out his mobile phone and dialled the number that he'd obtained from the internet before leaving Lower Tadfield. He hadn't want to give the person he was contacting too much forewarning, but eighteen years of upbringing in the Young household had had some inescapable effects, and he just couldn't escape the overwhelming feeling that dropping in on somebody who was effectively a stranger without giving them some indication that you were dropping by was just plane rude.

It took him a few seconds to get through to the university switchboard and just over half a minute to have his call transferred to the appropriate office in the Department of Microbiology.

There was a good bit of crackling as the phone was picked up, followed by the sound of a hacking cough."

"Hello, Dr. Gelb speaking," said a wheezing, bubbling voice.

"It's Adam Young."

There was a pause in which Adam came to realise that crackling was not static on the line, but rather the sound of Dr. Gelb trying to breath.

There was something that sounding like it was trying to be chuckle on the other end. "Well, well, well, never thought I'd be hearing from you in my dotage."

"I need to speak to you. It's urgent."

"You'd better come round then, Adam Young. I'm transferring to a post in Great Britain."

Adam's brow furrowed. "You are?"

"I've got to get out of this country. It's proving horribly resistant to avian flu. When can I expect you?"

"I should be there in an hour or so."

"Then I'll await your arrival."

"Thanks Pestilence."

The gurgled chuckle returned. "It's Dr. Gelb these days. A Horseperson am I no longer."

"That's what I need to talk to you about."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I'm intrigued."

"See you soon then." Adam pressed the end call button, took a deep breath and, with Dog at his side, headed out of the airport.

It was, he knew, going to be a very taxing day.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks you to Prieda Solo and PaintItBlackAndTakeItBack for the kind reviews. I do try to catch as many spelling, punctuation and grammar mistakes as possible; however, as I have been unable to obtain a beta for this fic and tend to be a little inept when spotting technical errors in my own writing, I should warn that there will probably still be a few typos lurking about.

-

The Dark Council was held, as always, in the Great Hall of the tallest, largest, most imposing and most be-spired palace in the city of Pandemonium. Said Great Hall was also possessed of a grotesque gaudiness that even some of the Dukes found slightly gauche. However, the understated look was never one that stood a chance of taking off in the diabolic realms, regardless of how many interior designers found their final destination there. When it came down to it the horrible frescos and terrible sculptures that adorned the place were in keeping with what was expected of a bastion of eternal torment: and the huge throne at the centre of the massive chamber wouldn't have looked quite as imposing had it been constructed with, say, Plexiglas rather than the cold black metal with bleached bone detail Lucifer had opted for.

Lucifer had a lot of thrones dotted about his dominion. It was a fascination that would have caused many a Freudian psychotherapist to raise a knowing eyebrow.

The Prince of Darkness was not himself however in attendance on this occasion. A fact that was not all that surprising given his seemingly capricious approach to infernal affairs. But then, when it came to the boss, you tended to get the feeling that he knew a lot more than he was prepared to let on: despite what arch sycophants such as Beelzebub and Moloch liked to think. Dagon was not unaware of the bounty that could be reaped from a well-timed bout of 'sucking up to the boss', but he couldn't help but feel that there was also such a thing as 'going too far'.

Still, as he sat on the moderately ornate chair six seats down from that occupied by Beelzebub, who had taken (as always) the one to the left of Lucifer's throne, Dagon couldn't help but experience the smug glow of one who had just jumped up three rungs on the hellish social ladder. A smugness that was compounded by the fact that Hastur and Ligur had been relegated to inferior positions within the audience that surrounded the raised dais upon which the council resided. He'd never liked either of the Dukes. Neither of them had any respect for paperwork and he'd long suspected that they both filled out their expenses forms incorrectly on purpose.

After realising that there was something very much amiss with the soul intake, Dagon had gone straight to Duke Belphegor, who had, quite predictably, promptly claimed credit for the discovery and relegated Dagon to the role of 'senior helper out'. This had not bothered Dagon in the least. Had he gone directly to one of the Princes with his discovery it was entirely possible that they might have decided that a good old fashioned bout of shooting (or stabbing or garrotting or just plain devouring) the paper-pushing Under Duke of a messenger was in order. Belphegor however had been able to frame 'his' discovery of the situation as an indication that certain other Dukes hadn't been paying enough attention to the earthly affairs they'd been charged with monitoring since the embarrassment of the failed apocalypse: a chance that he had been ever so grateful to receive. Indeed, Belphegor had been so grateful that, not only had he invited Dagon along to sit amongst the great lords of the underworld; he'd also promised the Master of Madness (and advanced bookkeeping) two-thousand more clerical imps for his department.

Thus it was that as Beelzebub rose from his demi-throne to address those assembled, Dagon had to fight the urge to rub his scaly hands in anticipation.

"Azzz I'm zzzure you are all aware by now, a zzzituation hath emerged that threatenzzz to dezzztablize the balance. One of the four, that which is called Pollution, hath ceazzzed to fulfil his dezzzignated function. Thizzz hath led to zzzome unforzzzeen changezz."

"What kind of changes?" demanded Moloch, who had taken the seat to the right of Lucifer's throne. It was clear that he was more than a little annoyed that Beelzebub had, once again, managed to snag the position to their absent master's left. "There was no problem when Pestilence stepped down?"

Belphegor cleared his throat. "Pestilence was supplanted by Pollution because this reflected the natural order of things. Pestilence was on the wane at the time and Pollution was on the rise. However, Pollution has, for reasons not yet understood, abandoned his post at the height of his potential."

"I still do not understand how this affects us at the present moment?" said Moloch, who had quite clearly been purposefully kept out of the loop by Beelzebub. "We are not, after all, in the planning stages of another Apocalypse." His cruel mouth twisted into a sneer as Beelzebub almost imperceptibly winced at the mention of the A word. After the first failed attempt at Armageddon Moloch had briefly supplanted Beelzebub as Lucifer's favourite, owing to the latter's utter failure at convincing the delinquent Son of Satan to perform his designated role.

Obviously not willing to directly contradict a Prince himself, Belphegor let Beelzebub respond.

"There hath been a depletion in the number of soulzzz entering our gatezzz. It zzzeems that Pollution'zzz cezzzation of hizzz function hath cauzzed the humanzzz to gradually ceazze polluting their world, dezzzpite the fact that they would not do thizzz of their own accord."

"Free will had been mitigated," added Belphegor, in distinctly simpering tones. Dagon could almost see him mentally adding up the brownie points he was earning from the perpetually buzzing Lord of the Flies. "In order for everything to work properly the Four must remain four unless they become obsolete due to human will and choice."

"I'm still not sure how this direct affects us," said a low and rather seductive voice coming from the demon inhabiting the seat next to Moloch. "There are a thousand temptations that don't lead to the destruction of their physical environment."

"Becauzzze Belial, humanzzz that would otherwizzze be ourzzz have zzztarted dying in the act of doing thingzzz like trying to remove bagzzz of rubbish from riverzzz, dezzzpite the fact that they cannot zzzwim. They die doing good and we cannot take them."

"But surely upstairs isn't going to want them if they aren't doing it of their own volition."

"Yezzz and that izzz exzzzactly why Limbo is currently filling up with thouzzzands of soulzzz muttering about energy zzzaving lightbulbzzz."

"Then what is to be done," said Moloch, tones slightly defensive. "Have you thought on this matter, Beelzebub?"

The assembled crowd murmured in assent.

Beelzebub visibly bristled at this. It had, in Dagon's opinion, been clever – by demonic standards at least – of Moloch to place responsibility for the solution onto his fellow Prince's shoulders like that.

"That izzz what we are here to discuzzz."

"It seems to me," said Belial, "that the only way the situation can be resolved is if the Four once again become four."

"But not even Lucifer himself has the power to compel any of them to fulfil their function," interjected Lilith from the seat just left of Beelzebub. "Such a mandate would have to come from… elsewhere."

"Then what do you propose?" demanded Moloch. "That we merely wait until the problem is solved for us?"

The Queen of Succubae sniffed. "Clearly not. I was merely pointing out that we can't force Pollution to do his job. Another solution must be found."

"Yes, but what?"

Judging it to be the right moment to contribute something to the meeting, Dagon gave a small cough and bowed his head respectfully. "Your Highnesses and Disgraces, may I make a suggestion."

Both Moloch and Beelzebub fixed their dreadful gazes upon him. Moloch snarled in the manner that suggested he would be only to happy to vaporize the upstart underling who had just spoken. Beelzebub on the other hand seemed curious as well as threatening.

"Zzzpeak Dagon."

"As both Queen Lilith and Duke Belphegor have pointed out, in order for things to function correctly Pollution's role must be filled. However, until he is compelled to return to his post, or another is called to replace him, a stop-gap measure is required to prevent the Limbo situation from getting out of hand. Therefore, I would propose that those amongst us who are most skilled in the arts of temptation be deployed to enact a wide scale campaign of distraction from these unnatural environmentalist urges: to encourage those humans that would under normal circumstances belong to us, to meet their end whilst engaged in sinful acts."

Beelzebub's expression went from curious and threatening to thoughtful and imposing.

"Zizzz would zzzeem to make senzzze. We can no longer however truzzzt the demon Crawly, dezzzpite our master's inzzztruction to allow him to remain at large."

"Quite so, your Highness," said Dagon, not about to let on that he had currently engaged the former Serpent of Eden in orchestrating a personal temptation that was essentially nothing more that a way of giving the finger to a stuck up angel with a superiority complex.

"I believe that Duke Hastur has often spoken of his prowess in the subtle arts of temptation," said Belphegor, face positively lighting up.

There was a startled shout from the second row of the audience.

"And, hasn't Duke Ligur also mentioned that he had no fear of the Earth, despite his little… accident," Belphegor continued. "Indeed, he has told me on many occasions that he sneers in the face of any demon who would dare to imply that he was not ready to get back out there and start tempting."

The short, squat demon standing next to Hastur made a noise could probably best be described as a girly shriek.

"Then it izzz zzzettled," said Beelzebub. "Hastur and Ligur will be sent to Earth to keep the wicked from dying of environmentalizzzm."

As he looked at the horrified Ducal Duo, Dagon was unable to keep himself from smirking a little. Having them sent back to the scene of their greatest humiliation felt almost like revenge for all the borderline illiterate requisition forms they'd had him process over the aeons.

----------

Most humans, on finding themselves alone in a foreign city that they had a) never visited before and b) knew next to nothing about, would be somewhat phased by the experience. They would also be extremely unlikely to get into the first car that pulled up on the curb and asked if they needed a lift. Thankfully, Adam Young was not most people and had therefore stepped out of the airport, onto the pavement and straight into the front passenger seat of a kindly and underpaid office worker by the name of John Gomez, who'd been rather surprised to find himself voluntarily stopping for the odd foreign tourist with the peculiarly angelic features and thoughtful expression.

As a general rule Adam didn't like to mess about with people's heads, but he knew that sometimes the end did justify the means (even if such situations tended to be a tad ill-defined): and it wasn't as though he was altering anything fundamental to the man's psyche, just temporarily removing his rational fear of picking up hitchhikers, which he'd be sure to put back exactly where he found it afterwards. John was, after all, the sort who was only too willing to help out those who looked as though they might need a hand. True, Adam could have attempted to locate a bus or train going in the right direction rather than descending upon an unsuspecting car owner. However, the trip to London he and rest of The Them had made last year had caused him to realise that his preternatural aptitude in most other areas did not, for some inexplicable reason, extend to his ability to navigate large metropolitan public transport systems: and while getting lost in a strange place could be a lot of fun, on this particular occasion time was of the essence.

"Nice cool day," the John remarked, as the car pulled up in front of the university's main entrance.

"Yeah, it's nice," he agreed, before mentally kicking himself. He hadn't intended to play with the local microclimate, but he was so used to doing it back in Tadfield, that he'd adjusted down the heat and humidity to his preferred levels without consciously thinking about it.

"The forecast said it was going be thirty-eight degrees, but it looks like you got lucky."

Adam smiled. "I've got a habit of being lucky."

John gave a companionable laugh. "Are you coming here to study?"

He shook his head. "I've got a meeting with one of the professors from Microbiology about a project I'm working on back in England."

"You look too young to be a graduate."

He gave a shrug. "Lucky again, I suppose."

"Well, take care," said the man, face suddenly serious and a little troubled. "You probably shouldn't accept lifts from any other strangers."

Adam nodded. "And you probably shouldn't pick up any other hitchhikers."

"I don't usually, but…." The man trailed off, quite unable to articulate the thought processes that had driven him to open his passenger door to Adam. 'Because he had an honest face' was really not a line of thinking that John usually adhered to. There was huge a difference between being kind and being stupid, after all.

"Thank you for the lift, though," said Adam, opening the passenger door. "It was very much appreciated."

Dog, who'd been sat quietly on his lap for the entire journey, barked in assent.

"Are you sure you won't accept any money for the petrol?"

John shook his head. "No need. I was going this way anyway."

"Well, thanks again," said Adam, as he got out and waved goodbye.

Materialising currency was something else that Adam tried to avoid doing. But again, he felt that basic politeness demanded that he provide the driver with some form of recompense. Some might have thought that the sum he wished into the man's bank account might have been over doing it a little; however the way Adam saw it, it wasn't as though he was making enough new money to devalue the national currency, or anything. Besides, John had been concerned that the cost of the repairs to the roof of the family home he was going to have to have done might mean that he wouldn't have enough money to buy birthday presents for his twin daughters. At eighteen years of age, Adam might be aeons wiser than his peers in many respects, but when it came to the subject of birthday presents he was still firmly entrenched in the camp that held that becoming a year older just wouldn't be the same without at least one gift to unwrap.

The Department of Microbiology turned out to be housed in a large, modern structure that had gone extremely heavy on the glass plating. The interior was pleasantly cool, nicely decorated and strangely devoid of both staff and students. There was however a smartly dressed woman manning the reception desk, who gave a polite smile as he approached.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Dr. Gelb," he said. "He's expecting me."

She raised an eyebrow. "Dr. Gelb?"

He nodded. "Is there something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, it's just that he doesn't get many visitors. I'll let him know you've arrived. What's you're name, please?"

"Adam. Adam Young."

After a short phone call, during which Adam was able to hear 'Dr. Gelb's' gurgled breathing, despite being stood five feet away from the receiver, the woman handed him an A4 sheet of paper on which a floor plan was printed. "He's in his office on the third floor."

"Thanks," said Adam, before adding: "It's quiet in here today."

"Food poisoning," she said by way of explanation. "Never trust the vending machines in this building."

Aware that even the most well trained of hellhounds probably shouldn't be let loose anywhere in a place where bacteria was cultured and viruses studied he instructed his faithful companion to wait for him in reception. An act which caused Dog to look at him in the pathetic hard done to manner of one who suspects that they're being cruelly denied a chance to go somewhere really interesting.

As he ascended the stairs, Adam noted that while the first three flights were impeccably clean, the one leading from the second floor to third appeared to be home to several large and rather ugly patches of mould. Said patches of mould were nothing however compare to the sight that faced Adam when he opened the door that led from the stairwell into the corridor. Whereas the walls everywhere else in the building were a pristine clinical white, those on the third floor were a patchy and dirty yellow. Adam got the feeling that they had probably been a pristine clinical white also until 'Dr. Gelb's' arrival. Of course, the walls held nothing to the floor, which was covered in what looked like a combination of rat droppings, rotting food, cockroaches and the odd scuttling, vaguely mammalian looking creature. The whole place gave the general impression of being a writhing, organic mess.

It was, he thought, as he glanced at the floor plan, a bloody good job that he could opt to be immune any disease he felt like.

'Dr. Gelb's' office, it transpired, was located, quite predictably, in a room between the men and women's toilets.

When Adam knocked on the door (which was coated in a very unpleasant and sticky film), there was a bout of coughing followed by as rasped 'come in'.

Nose wrinkling a little, Adam took hold of the slimy door handle, turned it and walked in.

The room much in much the same state as the rest of the floor: though the yellow of the walls was a tad more intense here. There was also, quite inexplicably, a large duck cheerfully waddling about.

'Dr. Gelb' was sitting, behind a large mahogany desk upon which several clumsily carved wooden figurines resided. He was a short entity; with matted silver hair, pustule infested skin and cracked lips. When he stood to greet his visitor, Adam noted that he was wearing a suit of a colour that could best be described as 'sickly beige' teamed with a bright yellow shirt.

"Hello, Adam Young," he rasped, extending a rash-covered hand, which Adam shook despite the repulsion he felt.

"Hello."

The duck honked.

Adam stared.

"Just Earnest saying hello," said Gelb, gesturing for Adam to take a wood-worm infested seat.

"Earnest?" queried Adam.

"You've heard of Typhoid Mary, I hope," said Gelb.

Adam nodded.

"Well, this is Avian Flu Earnest."

"Hello, Avian Flue Earnest," said Adam, allowing a few scraps of bread to materialise in his hand, before throwing them to the cheerful duck.

"Alas, we've been quite out of luck, of late, haven't we Earnest?"

Earnest honked non-committally as he pecked at the bread.

"Things were looking so hopeful in Vietnam, but then we came here to the Philippines and old Earnest just hasn't been able to get a good epidemic going. Still, it has given me more time to catch up on my other hobbies."

"What kind of hobbies?" Adam politely enquired.

"Well, I've started doing a bit of woodwork. I made that chair you're sitting in myself, you know. And then there's my reading." The rash covered hand gestured to a shelf in the far left corner of the room, upon which a collection of Mills and Boone novels resided. He then gave a gurgled chuckle. "Of course, you're about to try and drag me away from all this, aren't you?"

Adam gave a sigh and nodded. "Pollution's stopped working and there needs to be somebody to make-up the Four."

Pestilence shook his head. "I may be enjoying a resurgence in some areas, Adam, but his potential is still greater than mine."

"I know," said Adam. "It wouldn't be forever, just until I can convince him to return. You'd only be filling the gap until he returned."

Gelb raise a be-scabbed eyebrow. "You banished them once, the three of them."

Adam nodded, he's suspected that Pestilence might bring this up. "Only to prevent the Apocalypse. And I just sent them back into the human consciousness for a while. I wouldn't have destroyed them. I couldn't, not without altering the mind of every human on the planet."

"But now young White had opted not to function, causing a rather inconvenient feed-back loop into the collective consciousness: a very ironic turn of events, if I may say so."

"Human's are supposed to have free will," said Adam.

Pestilence gave another gurgling chuckle. "But we personifications are not, I take it?"

"No, you all seem to have a bit of it too, even if War and Famine don't realise it and Pollution doesn't actually know that he's using it: which is why I can't force you or him to do anything you don't want to."

"No, you can't," agreed Pestilence. "Not without doing something very drastic to the human consciousness. If I wish to stay in retirement, I will."

Adam's heart sank.

"So it's a good job for you, Adam Young, that I've been having a few pangs of nostalgia, of late."

"Is that an acceptance?" said Adam, trying not to get his hopes up too much before receiving a direct confirmation.

"It's an acceptance," said Pestilence. "However, I would like one of those work-life balances that they're all talking about these days."

"I think you can have that," said Adam with a relieved smile.

"That was always the trouble with Sable, you know," Pestilence said. "Never had any interests outside his function."

Not quite sure how best to respond to that one, Adam gave a non-committal snort. "Will you be able to start today?"

Pestilence smiled widely, an action that caused the cracked lips to start bleeding. "Indeed I will. I believe I told you that I'm thinking of taking a trip to England. It's been a while since I got a good flu epidemic going there: and my dearest MRSA could probably do with a little fine tuning."

"Thanks Pestilence," said Adam.

Earnest honked.

"Of course," the stand-in fourth Horseperson of the Apocalypse said fondly. "I'll just have to hope that this disease ridden bird takes to the colder climate."

As Adam said his goodbyes and quickly Pestilence's abode, he felt very relieved indeed. That had been a lot easier than expected.

He couldn't help but think however, that convincing Pollution to return to his post was going to be a lot more difficult.

----------

As Crowley collapsed onto the crisp cotton sheets of his freshly made bed at the Willow Tree Hotel there were three words that resounded in his head.

_What a day._

Just as he'd expected, his temptee had turned out to be a pathologically pleasant, morally uptight individual with a chronically under-developed sense of humour and an overactive sense of guilt. Crowley had always enjoyed inciting the terminally self-righteous to commit the most sinful and gloriously humiliating acts possible, but Howard Goode lacked the vanity, pig-headedness and over-inflated sense of self-worth of the truly self-righteous. In fact, Howard Goode actually had surprisingly little in the way of self-worth: a fact that would have doubtless surprised his co-workers at the Willowholme Library. His closet bisexual fantasies, which had of late been starring Leon the seventeen year old, distinctly male library assistant and Jenny the skinny, distinctly married head of IT services, imbued him with a constant sense of shame and self-reproach that was only ever alleviated during the periods of time he devoted to helping others.

When Crowley had knocked on the door of his structurally unsound home in the picturesque and extremely dull hamlet of Summerstorm Point and informed him that a distant relative had died, leaving him five-hundred-and-ten-thousand pounds better off, his delight at being of the receiving end of over half a million quid had been tempered with feelings of extreme guilt about being so undeserving of it. It was pathetic really.

Crowley, playing the sharp suited London Lawyer, had advised him to seek the advice of a financial advisor whom the demon knew to be of extreme ethical dubiousness.

"That won't really be necessary," the man had said, after the demon, seated on the hideously uncomfortable and hideously floral arm chair in the bungalow's living room, had explained the situation. "I thought I might use some of it to pay my debts and maybe buy a little flat in Willowholme: but I really think I should give everything that remains after that to the Summerstorm Hospice appeal."

"Don't you want anything more for yourself?" Crowley had asked, raising a cynical eyebrow.

Howard Goode, who sat on an even more uncomfortable, yet slightly less hideous, antique dining chair, which had undoubtedly once belonged to a doting aunty, shook his head. "No, I don't really need much more than I have already." He paused for a moment before reverently adding: "Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God."

"Depends on the size of the needle, I suppose," said Crowley, with a shrug, before promising to call back on Monday evening to bring some necessary paperwork and arrange the bank transfer.

Yes, Crowley thought, as he tried to will away the aches pains that had come from spending just under two hours sat in the hideous armchair, the temptation of Howard Goode was definitely going to be a long, drawn out affair. Greed was obviosly not the best gateway sin to try and induce: the man clearly thought that his stock market losses had been a clear message from above about the wickedness of gambling and immorality of the pursuit of greater wealth. In actuality, said stock market losses had had more to do with Crowley's fiscal meddling in the global money markets that week, but he couldn't very tell him that. Vanity wasn't likely to work either, to nurture conceit there had to be a ready supply waiting under the surface. Wrath _might_ have been a goer, it always was with the pathologically repressed. However Crowley preferred to avoid it in one-on-one temptations: tying up the phone lines and watching thousands of people froth at the mouth was one thing, as was helping the odd bar fight along; but there was something about being directly responsible for inciting acts of serious physical violence against people who didn't really deserve it that always made him feel, well, a little uneasy. No, wrath was definitely out. Hid best bets were clearly lust and envy: though getting his temptee to act on the former might be a little more difficult than it would in most cases, owing to Mr. Goode's fervent eschewal of alcohol.

He dismissed gluttony and sloth out of hand: it was a pretty poor tempter who was forced to resort to inciting either of those as the main event in a one-on-one situation these days.

Crowley had no doubt he'd get there in the end, of course. The man didn't possess the confidence to withstand a prolonged campaign. But he was certain that the leading astray of Howard Goode wasn't going to be much of a personal victory.

Of course, rather more bizarre than his designated temptee had been the unanticipated appearance of Pollution. Crowley still wasn't quite sure why he'd allowed curiosity to get the better of him earlier. After all, for a long time he'd been half expecting one of the Four to come and deliver a bit of inconvenient payback for his role in the frustration of the Apocalypse. However there'd been something in the personification's expression that had been strangely compelling: a peculiar mixture of curiosity and bewilderment on the preternaturally pretty features that had, along with the declarations of boredom, piqued Crowley's own inquisitiveness in a way that the demon found hard to resist.

Inquisitiveness alone however, could not satisfactorily explain why he'd taken it into his head to deliver a bit of impromptu fashion advice to the entity. Though he did have a dreadful inkling that for a brief moment he'd felt a bit, well, sorry for the personification of Pollution. For a while back there he'd seem so… so adift.

Crowley snorted. Feeling sorry for one of the Four? He had to be going soft. Even Aziraphale would probably balk at the idea taking pity of any of them. They were personifications of humankind's greatest blights, nothing more.

But then why the hell would one of them just lose interest in his function like that? A car engine didn't go about ceasing to work because it didn't find its job creatively fulfilling. Nor did a computer crash purely because it was bored of running the same program over and over again. Pollution had been acting more like, well, Crowley had said it himself earlier, hadn't he: a really pretentious artist in the middle of a crisis of creativity.

It just didn't make sense.

Still, the demon told himself as he closed his eyes and attempted to relax, none of it was really any of his business.

A few moments later, Crowley began to gradually drift into a light doze. He'd always found that the floating, semi-conscious state one sometimes went into on the borders of sleep and wakefulness to be a rather pleasant experience, and it was a sensation that, right now, he wanted very much to prolong.

He did not therefore welcome the sharp rap on the door that startled him out of it.

Thoroughly annoyed, he dragged himself off the bed and stalked towards the door, determined to afflict whichever idiotic member of staff had interrupted him with a very uncomfortable and embarrassing little ailment.

When he opened said door however he instantly took a very hasty step back.

There, before him, stood the personification of Pollution, skin clean, hair innocent of any trace of mud and wearing the jeans and white shirt Crowley had materialised for him earlier. He was also smiling in a terribly disconcerting manner.

"Er… Hi," said Crowley, wondering if now would be an opportune time to, say, make a speedy get away out of the window.

"Hello demon," said Pollution, smile widening. "I want you to come to the pub with me."

Crowley jaw dropped.

Forget bizarre. This was downright surreal.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Big thank you to the people who commented on the last chapter. You may or may not be pleased to know that Avian Flu Earnest will be appearing again in future chapters.

-

For several moments Crowley found his mouth opening and closing in a manner that was uncannily reminiscent of a goldfish.

"You want me to go to the pub?" he said, eventually, deciding that seeking extraneous clarification was probably better than the goldfish impersonation.

Pollution nodded. His expression was as serene and impassive as ever, but Crowley couldn't help but notice that there was a certain - rather disconcerting - glint in his eyes that hadn't been there when he'd encountered him earlier that day.

"You want me to go to the pub… with you?"

Another nod. "Yes."

Brow furrowing, Crowley asked the obvious question.

"Why?"

"Because I want to watch the humans again." This quite obviously made perfect sense to Pollution, who was now looking at him expectantly, but Crowley couldn't help but feel that the Horseperson's reasoning was about as transparent as easily penetrable as lead.

"Yes, but that doesn't quite explain why you need _me_ to go with you."

"Because I'll attract attention if I'm there on my own."

Crowley raised an eyebrow and resisted the urge to point out that Pollution would, in his currently more-visible-than-usual state, attract attention whomever he chose to keep company with. The change of the clothes had helped, as had the removal of the mud from his person; but the fact remained that any entity that took the form of a pale, slender, young man with shoulder length silver hair and a face that seemed to adopt 'spaced out' as its default expression, was going to have a little difficulty fading into the background just about anywhere that wasn't some kind of convention for stoned pretty boys.

"The thin woman at the library told me that strangers on their own get noticed in the Cat and Mouse."

Crowley's brow furrowed. "The Cat and Mouse?"

"It's the name of the pub."

The demon thought that that was quite possibly one of the most revoltingly twee monikers for a drinking establishment that he'd ever heard, and said so.

Pollution merely shrugged in response, clearly having little grasp of the stylistic nuances of naming that so often hinted whether a place was trying to be an upmarket wine bar, ultra-tacky theme pub or bog standard watering hole.

"You can tell a lot from a name," said Crowley.

Pollution gave what sounded like small snort. "I once worked for a company called Clearwater, Oakley and Greenfield's as a lab assistant."

"Er… right," said Crowley, not quite sure what the relevance of the statement was.

"They manufactured industrial strength bleach." The entity continued, expression seeming to glaze over for a moment. "Well, they did until the Pilkinton Reservoir scandal, at least. But none of them ever seemed to realise how ironic the name was." The side's of the Horseperson's mouth quirked upwards slightly into what looked horribly like a nostalgic half-smile. "Sable was very amused by it all."

"They just don't think things through sometimes," the demon said, before finding himself succumbing to a few fond recollections of his own. "I mean, if the boys downstairs had let me put down every time I've convinced an unwitting parent to name their new baby Mike Hunt or Jack Hoff, as an incitement to sin, I'd probably be a bloody Duke by now." His smirk at this set of recollections was tempered by an inward shudder at the thought of such a promotion. As far as Crowley had been able to observe, the bestowal of a diabolic dukedom came with a mandatory eighty percent reduction in cognitive capacity and a ninety percent increase in embarrassingly overblown self-importance.

Pollution looked at him in a distinctly perplexed manner. "How would that incite sin?"

"Well, think about it. Kid gets a cheap sexual pun for a name. Kid's schoolmates are consumed by an overwhelming urge to make light of this at least seventy-five times a day. Kid grows up embittered, wrathful and possessed of a spiteful indifference towards humanity."

"Oh." The entity's expression suggested that Crowley's words hadn't made the least bit of sense to him.

"You've never interacted with them much, have you... Human's I mean?"

"I've been around them constantly since my inception," said Pollution. "But my dealings with them have always of a very specific nature."

"And you were never, you know, curious about what they did when they weren't buggering up the environment?" This was something that genuinely baffled Crowley, who couldn't see how you could spend any length of time around humans without getting just a bit intrigued by their extremes of stupidity and ingenuity, cruelty and kindness, cowardice and bravery. Pollution however shook his head.

"It was never my purpose to be interested in them outside of their capacity to of corrupt the earth. Sable understands them a little better, I think. But then, out of all of us, his purpose has always been the most intimately connected with individual humans."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "I don't know about that. As I remember it, old Pestilence could get pretty dam- bloody intimate with individual humans. Still, don't know quite how he managed it though. I mean he was covered in pustules and smelled like a midden." The demon shook his head. "The old bastard must have had a shit load of charisma going for him."

"What did you think of him?" said Pollution, suddenly eyeing him in an uncomfortably speculative manner.

"Pestilence, you mean?"

He nodded.

Crowley shrugged, slightly thrown by the question. "He was all right, I suppose, even if he did get stuck in that fourteenth century mindset." He couldn't help give a small grin at the memory of the spirited disagreement he and the personification had had over the subject of the fourteenth century in that Parisian tavern sometime during the seventeen-eighties. Oh, the itchy rash the demon had been afflicted with for the proceeding three months had really pissed him off at the time, but there had always been something almost endearing about the putrid old git; especially when you compared him to his colleagues. "Last time I saw him was about twenty-five years ago in the US. He seemed to be enjoying retirement well enough."

The look with which the personification was regarding Crowley grew even more specularive. "Carmine compared me unfavourably to him once."

At this, Crowley inwardly groaned. Being the demon of the world that he was he knew that responding to such statements could be a dangerous business: some people tended to take offence no matter what you said. After a split second's hesitation he therefore opted to respond with a non-committal, yet hopefully sympathetic: "Oh".

It was an avoidance tactic that most humans would identify as such straight away, but he was hoping that this was another linguistic nuance that Pollution wouldn't fully comprehend.

"She said that if he'd been doing my job the death toll would have been a hundred times higher." An oddly wounded expression briefly flittered across the pale face. "She didn't understand what I was trying to do."

Crowley felt his wretched curiosity being pricked once again. "And what were you trying to do?"

"Create something beautiful."

"And now you've lost your touch." He tried to bite the words back, he really did, but there are some things that one can't help but blurt out and this was, alas, one of them.

The wounded expression returned; this time electing to remain fixed on the entity's face.

The demon cringed. "Shit, I didn't mean…." He abruptly trailed off as he desperately tried to think-up something that he could have meant instead. "What I mean is... well, you said it yourself earlier, none of it pleases you on an aesthetic level any more, as it were. I was just reiterating what you already…. Look, I didn't mean to cause offence."

After a moment of silence, which in Crowley's opinion went on far too long for comfort, Pollution asked the inevitable question.

"But do you think that I lost my touch?"

Aware that he'd just been asked the Horsepersonly equivalent of 'does my arse look fat in this', Crowley swallowed and - desperately hoping he could find some way to dodge Pollution's wrath should it come down to it - opened his mouth to speak.

"I don't know. Pollution's just, well, pollution to me. I mean, it's not like I'd know how to judge if one oil spill's better than another, or whether the latest chemical manufacturing process represents a bold new direction in environmental desecration or a passé rehash of the same old thing. I mean, you just said that it's not just about the number of casualties."

Pollution gave a sigh. Much to the demon's relief however, the hurt in the entity's expression did however seem to fade. "You don't understand either, do you?"

"No, not really. I'm a demon, not a Horseperson… or a bloody art critic for that matter." With a sigh of his own, he looked the entity in the eye. "Look, what is it that you actually want with me? You've told me that you don't want any sort of revenge, but I can't see why else you'd bother coming to see me. I mean, it's not as if I can do anything about your creative difficulties."

"You understand humans better than I do."

"Well, all things considered, I won't deny that, but I don't see what the H- Manchester it's got to do with your situation."

"I've decided to take up human watching."

"Human watching?"

"I no longer have a reason for existing, so I decided that I needed a hobby. I've been watching them all day, but the trouble is that they seem to be even more interested in me than I am in them. It's… disconcerting."

"So in effect, what you want is somebody to a) help you deflect attention from yourself and b) act as some kind of unpaid tour guide of planet humanity."

"Yes, that would be wonderful. Will you do it?"

For half a second Crowley considered telling him sod off and go and bother some other demon. However, for some strange and deeply unsettling reason, the look of hopefulness on the entity's face made him feel a tad averse to the idea of turning him down flat, out of some sense of misplaced spite.

Besides, he really was too sober to deal with all of this right now.

"Okay, fine, why not."

He tried not to feel too pleased with the smile that Pollution gave him.

Two minutes later Crowley found himself being led out of the hotel lobby and onto the not-so-mean streets of Willowholme. There was the usual amount of bustle and activity that you'd expect from a Friday night in town that was, when it came down to it, a tarted-up tourist trap with pretensions of rural authenticity. However, aside from making a mental note to encourage some likely local entrepreneur that a new nightclub with bright neon frontage and badly soundproofed walls was just what the town and their bank balance needed, he didn't bother to pay too much attention to the goings on of the humans around him. Providing he didn't find himself discorporated courtesy of pissed off personification, he could amuse himself with a bit of light to moderate temptation over the weekend.

----------

A few hundred miles away in a genuinely authentic and not at all tourist trappy bit of rural England, three friends were sitting in front of the evening news.

"So he's definitely coming back tomorrow?" said Brian, who had spent most of the day alternating between sleeping on Wensleydale's parents' sofa, groaning pitifully and making pained proclaimations about how he was never going to touch a drop of alcohol ever again.

Pepper and Wensleydale nodded. Adam had phoned several hours ago to let his friends know that he and Dog would be arriving in Gatwick on Saturday evening. Brian however had, at the time, been in no fit state to take in this information.

"And he wants us to meet him in some little village in Dorset."

"Devonshire," corrected Wensleydale.

"But he didn't say why?"

Wensleydale sighed. "Well, he said that a friend of his who lives there was having job difficulties and he really wanted to go and see him."

"I still don't see why he needs us to tag along."

"He said he though it'd be fun if the four of us took a week's holiday there," said Pepper.

"And you both agreed?" said Brian sounding a tad hurt and incredulous. "You both agreed without asking me?"

Pepper felt a twinge of unease prickling at the back of her mind. She had always taken a great deal of pride in being an independent sort who could make her own decision. Yet where Adam suggested things she seemed to have a terrible habit of just going along with them, no matter how strange and absurd they might seem. The best explanation she'd ever been able to come up with was that Adam was Adam and therefore not like anybody else on the planet. Not a particularly rational way of thinking about things; yet one that she couldn't help but believe had some basis in truth.

"You don't have to come along too if you don't want to, Brian," said Wensleydale.

Brian scowled. "I didn't say I wasn't going to go."

"So are you coming with us, or not?" said Wensleydale.

"Of course I am."

As the news reader on the television announced that a completely clean and safe method of recycling types of plastic that had previously been un-recyclable had been discovered at a North West university, Pepper comforted herself with the knowledge that if she was uncharacteristically unquestioning when it came to Adam, Wensleydale and Brian were just as bad.

----------

The Cat and Mouse Inn turned out, much to Crowley's astonishment, not to be one of the many over-priced and tackily faux-rustic affairs that littered the town.

No, it was a complete, unequivocal and unashamed dive.

From the hideous swirly carpet that should have been ritually burned at the end of the sixties to the peeling flocked wallpaper and thick fog of smoke that lingered in the air despite the recent ban, the place screamed: Cheap Dump for Locals. Indeed, just about the only sops to folksy, rustic living seemed to be the coal fire and the oak cabinet behind the bar, both of which were most probably still only in action because nobody had bothered to do any serious redecorating since the early seventies.

On entering, a fair few eyes turned to size up the altogether too well dressed newcomers; however this being one of the pub's busier nights of the week the majority of the other patrons mentally dismissed them as tourists who, by some unfortunate feat of navigation had got lost and ended up in Willowholme's premier haunt for those who wouldn't be allowed in anywhere else. Of those that didn't go back to their conversations were the barmaid, who gave Pollution a friendly wave, and Leon Waters, the frustrated library assistant, who appeared to be in the process of purchasing a sneaky underage pint. Giving a nod of acknowledgement to the latter and a polite smile to the former, he approached the bar, Pollution following close behind him.

"Be with you in a sec," said the barmaid, who having finished pouring Leon's pint, nipped across to the far corner of the bar to serve a jowly, middle-aged man in a t-shirt bearing the logo _Willowholme Jazz Festival 1989_.

"All right, mate," said Leon, with a cheerful grin, quite obviously glad that another week standing behind the withdrawal and returns counter at the library was over.

"This where you spend all your Friday nights then?" said Crowley, knowing full well that the young man would much rather be in an inner city rock club, or failing that, that bar two streets away that had live bands on at the weekends; but that the Cat and Mouse was just about the only place where he wouldn't get ID'ed.

"Yeah, it's not too bad," he said with a shrug, a small hint of dissatisfaction creeping into his voice. "What you doing in this hole, anyway? Thought you lot got paid better than that."

Crowley gave a snort. "Thought I'd come and have a look at the local pub and club scene while I'm here."

Leon gave a laugh and shook his head. "Yeah, well, good luck finding it."

"Let me guess, you're out of here the first chance you get."

"Too right. I'm going to London with the rest of the band"

The demon raised an eyebrow. "You're in a band?"

The young man nodded and pointed over to a table on the far side of the room where four other equally young men sat. "We're _Satanic Firetrap_. Been trying to get a gig here, but Gail over there says that she's not going to allow any more live performances after what happened when she booked that German mind reading act."

"I've got a few friends in the music industry," said Crowley in casual tones. "I could pass along a demo tape or two if you like."

Leon's face lit up. "You could?"

Crowley nodded and handed him a freshly materialised business card with the number of his mobile phone on. "Call, me when you're ready."

The boy positively beamed. "Thanks mate. I'll go and tell the rest of the lads."

Crowley gave a distinctly snake-like smile. "No problem, I like to help new talent along."

This statement was very true. The younger they were the more malleable. And Leon Waters had far more raw potential for either divine or diabolically inspired pursuits than did the sad and perpetually guilty Howard Goode. Under the thick veneer of small town ennui, the kid had ambition. Of course, the first thing that would have to go were the rest of the band, who as far as Crowley could tell were doomed to spend their adult lives in reasonable jobs with reasonable salaries. But a messy, acrimonious split with one's former associates was always a good way to kick off a solo career, and with the right prompting, it probably wouldn't take long for him to ditch artistic integrity in favour of sex, drugs and commercial success.

Having finished dealing with the middle-aged customer, the barmaid walked back over.

"What can I do you two for then?" she asked.

Crowley looked at Pollution, who had until that point been intently watching the demon's conversation with the library assistant.

"I want something strong," he said.

"All right then," said Crowley with a shrug, "a large bottle of Jack Daniel's for me and a bottle of Aftershock for my friend here."

The barmaid gaped slightly, but only for a little while. It was, after all, nowhere near the strangest request she'd had that week.

"Okay, but I'd like to mention that we've got a strict 'no throwing up on the carpet policy'," she said. "And I'm probably legally obliged to mention that drinking that much in one go could be a bit on the fatal side."

"Duly noted," said Crowley, as she pulled two full bottles of the requested substances out from under the bar.

"That'll be eighty quid, please," she said.

Crowley handed over two fifty pound notes. "Keep the change."

Her eyes widened. "Thanks."

She then, after a moment's hesitation during which a brief war of conscience versus discretion took place, looked at Crowley in a slightly pleading manner.

"Look, are you sure your friend should be drinking?"

"Why do you ask?" said Pollution, before Crowley could tell her to mind her own bloody business.

She sighed and looked down at the counter. "Well, it's just that Leon told me earlier about how you turned up at the library caked in mud and babbling on about the meaning of life…. and you did behave very strangely when you were in here last night." Her face flushed, as she realised just how far she'd overstepped the barmaidenly mark. "Look, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I was just a bit concerned."

"Why would you-"

"He's an artist, they're allowed to be eccentric," snapped Crowley, quickly cutting off the enquiry Pollution was about to ask and, bottles of hard liquor in hand, led the entity over to an empty table.

As they sat down on unsteady chairs that had clearly not been bough to match the table (or indeed anything else in the vicinity), Pollution fixed Crowley with a quizzical expression.

"Why do the humans seem to be so worried on my behalf? They'll happily destroy villages, habitats and poison the drinking water of millions of others others: but a single individual behaving in a way they find strange leads them to show concern."

Crowley gave an inward sigh. "You want an honest answer?"

Pollution nodded. "Yes."

"Truth is I have no bloody idea."

"You haven't?"

"Nope, it's a bugger isn't it?"

"It makes no sense. They're inherently destructive, yet there are times when they don't act in accordance with it."

After pouring himself a large drink of whisky and knocking it back, Crowley gave an amused snort.

"Some would disagree with you on the inherently destructive part."

Following Crowley's lead, Pollution took a large gulp of his own brightly coloured liquor. Unlike Crowley however, he decided to forego the glass and chug it straight from the bottle. "I wouldn't, I sprang from it."

"I thought you said that you didn't understand them?"

"I didn't say that that was _all_ they were; only that it's an inherent part of them."

"Probably my fault then," said Crowley, pouring himself another drink. "You know, the whole business with the garden and the apple. Though, then again, that was probably ineffable."

"Ineffable?"

"Yeah, part of His plan."

"Whose plan?"

Had he been talking to another being of angelic stock he would have suspected them of deliberate obtuseness, but Pollution… well, Crowley wasn't exactly sure of the precise mechanics by which personifications came about or how much they knew about the great game of Cosmic Solitaire when they 'sprang from the minds of men'. He therefore downed his second glass of whisky of the evening and gave a meaningful glance at the ceiling.

"You know…_His_."

Realisation seemed to dawn. "I never really thought about it myself. I've always lived for my purpose and that was enough."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Until now."

Pollution nodded. "Until now. Now I have no purpose."

For a long time neither of them said anything. Pollution gazed at the four women who were currently monopolising the pool table (three of whom gazed back in a distinctly hopeful manner), while Crowley browsed the various flyers, posters and newspaper clippings that seemed to have accumulated on the walls over the years. There was a advertisement for the _Summerstorm Point Flower Show: 2002_, a yellowing newspaper article about the Willowholme Cycling Club from January 1996 and a small Found Property notice from a few months ago, asking the owner of a monocle found in one of the sinks in the men's toilets to please come and collect it from the bar.

After another three rounds of Jack Daniels however the demon felt emboldened enough to say what was on his mind.

"But when you think about it _He_ must have known that you'd lose interest in your job."

An unreadable, but rather disconcerting expression settled on Pollution's face. "You mean that he planned it?"

"Perhaps."

"I don't understand."

Crowley gave a small but rather uneasy laugh. "Join the club."

Pollution seemed to consider this for a while. "So, just because I no longer wish to fulfil my function, it doesn't necessarily mean that my existence is meaningless, because my loss of purpose could just be part of the plan."

"Yes, but odds are that neither you or me or anybody else who isn't _Him_ will able to comprehend the plan or its meaning… Well, unless he ever decides to talk, that is."

"Then it all might as well be meaningless," said Pollution softly, suddenly looking altogether far more lost and vulnerable than any entity who'd been responsible for Chernobyl and Three Mile Island had a right to be. "I don't think I ever cared about meaning until my function lost its appeal."

The demon experienced a rush of something that felt uncomfortably like pity.

"I suppose that, when it comes down to it, the real question is: what do _you_ want to do with your existence?"


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Big thank you to everybody who reviewed the last instalment. In this chapter we shall see a tiny bit more 'Dr. Gelb' and Earnest and a lot more drunken Crowley. I'm a little cold-ridden at the moment (curse you Pestilence and your little avian), so really hope that I haven't made too many embarrassing typos or written anything utterly nonsensical in this chapter.

-

What _did_ the personification of Pollution want from existence?

The answer, White decided after a considerable amount of deliberation, was that he didn't have a clue. He knew what he _had_ wanted: to wile away the years until Armageddon by creating those scenes of gorgeous destruction he was so good at; before being given the wonderful opportunity to unleash his full potential in one beautiful burst during the Big Ride Out. He'd never given much thought as what might come after that, believing that once his function was fulfilled he would simply cease to be. But then, creature of the present that he was, thoughts of future obsolescence had not tended to enter his thoughts. Of course, things were different now. Suddenly, questions of 'what the hell should I do now that I'm bored of it all?' were entering his mind, and he had no idea of what he actually, genuinely desired.

With a small sigh, he let his attention wander from the problem and over to the group of young men with whom the boy from the library was sat. They were chattering about their band and excitedly passing around the business card that the demon had handed over. For a while he continued to observe them and the odd way in which their fantasies of the future seemed to be so divergent from their current situation, before turning his focus to the gaggle of patrons around the bar: who ostensibly buying drinks but mostly just seeming to stick around to listen the barmaid's account of exactly what had gone on between the woman who ran the organic greengrocers on Chillinton Street and the tax inspector, in the changing rooms of the local Help the Aged charity shop. Eventually, his thoughts drifted back to the question.

He supposed that he wanted… well, some kind of creative objective to work towards. However, to do that he'd need some kind of aesthetic in mind, and, well, if he still had that he wouldn't be there, sitting in this strange little den of mortal habitation with an infernal being of questionable diabolicality. An infernal being of questionable diabolicality that seemed to be using the silence that had settled between them, to idly look around the bar and further drain the bottle of whisky in front of him. In the end he was forced to concede his lack of self-knowledge, an act that felt rather more, what was the word, _embarrassing_ than his nature really warranted.

"I don't know," he said, almost forty minutes after the question had left the demon's lips.

The demon regarded him with eyes that appeared to be a tad less focussed than they had been when they'd entered the building.

"What, no idea at all?"

White shook his head. "I still want to create beautiful things, but my concept of what beauty is seems to have been lost, or at least changed."

Snorting, the demon made a gesture with his hand, the meaning of which White was unable to fathom until he noticed that the bottle in front of the demon seemed to have miraculously refilled itself. "Well, that's a bit of a bugger."

White wasn't quite sure how to respond to this observation. Like most humans, the demon seemed to have a strange talent for understatement. There did emerge after a moment's though however a rather obvious question he could ask in return.

"What is it that _you_ strive for in existence."

The demon eyed him warily for a few moments, as if mentally debating something. "Well," he said eventually, "the party line is that I'm here to devote my existence secure as many souls for Downstairs as possible, but-"

"But at Armageddon you decided against fulfilling the purpose Hell had assigned to you," said White, unable to keep himself from pointing this out.

"Ah, but that's the thing, isn't it. I'm a demon not a Horseperson. Temptation's my job, not my whatdyoumicallit… reason for being."

"Then what is your reason for being?"

With a shrug the demon poured himself yet another glass of amber liquid and knocked it back. "Buggered if I know. As I said, there's only really Him Up There who knows that."

"But you do know what you want from existence?"

The demon nodded in a manner that was highly suggestive of moderate drunkenness. "I've got a fair idea."

"What is it then?"

"What's what?"

"The thing you want from existence?"

"Oh there are a whole… whatsit… whole bunch of them. I mean, there's a good meal and a decent drink, for one." As if to prove this, the demon downed yet another (rather large) shot of whisky. "Then there's just… just, well, being here."

White's brow furrowed as he reappraised the demon's state of inebriation from mild-to-moderate to moderate-teetering-on-severe. A creature of the present he might be, but he just couldn't conceive that 'just being here' could ever be, well, enough. Watching the humans _was_ fascinating in a way that he hadn't expected it could be – he would never have believed that idle chitchat between co-workers that didn't centre around exactly what would happen if somebody accidentally pressed the 'release effluent' button at the wrong time, could ever be as enthralling as the banter that had taken place between the musician boy and the thin woman at the library had been. However, it wasn't as though there was any kind of point to listening in on them; no work of great beauty that he could create as a result.

"That's it?"

"Pretty much. I mean, like I said, I don't know the great ineffable reason why I'm here, I just… just am here and it's bloody brilliant… well, apart from the bits where Dagon sends me to tempt some laughable, inconsequential, no-hoper into sin, just so he can give the metaphorical middle finger to some prissy angel – the bastard." The demon reached, with an ever so slightly unsteady hand, for the bottle. "But I like being here on earth." Opting to forego the glass, he took a long deep gulp from the bottle. "S'better than the alternatives."

White thought about this for a moment. "So what you want from existence is just… to be. Here on earth?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

This he found himself unable to understand, failing to see how an existence without a super-ordinate objective could be desirable.

"I need something more."

The demon shrugged. "You're not me, I'm not you."

White didn't see what the point of making such an obvious observation was, and said so. The demon responded in a manner best described as irritable. Something about the exasperated sigh he gave caused White to experience a small surge of amusement.

"Look, you asked me what I wanted. I told you. You told me that you didn't want the same. Ssso I pointed out that as ssseparate individuals it'sss only to be expected." As the demon spoke his voice became progressively louder and more sibilant, an action that caused quite a few heads to turn and peer with decided interest in their direction. "I mean, you talk about wanting more than just an aimless thingumywatsit… that word… existence, but you threw away the lassst sodding purpose you sodding had."

Feeling a tad stung, White pursed his lips. "I already told you, it ceased to engage me on an aesthetic level."

For some reason this caused the demon to start laughing in a rather loud and uncontrollable manner, which served to attract the attention of several more patrons. The stares did not unsettle White as much as he might have predicted it might, but then it wasn't directed primarily at him.

"You're priceless, you know that?" the demon said, once the inexplicable hilarity began to subside.

White wasn't quite sure how to take this remark. "I am?"

The demon nodded. "You really are a walking, talking, manifesting, art school cliché… now, are you going to finish your drink, or can I have it?"

Having no clue as to what an 'art school cliché' was White looked down at the still mostly untouched bottle of Aftershock in from of him. The stuff had a pleasantly toxic tang to it, but, as with the previous night's cider, he found himself quite unable to comprehend the appeal of consuming vast quantities of it.

"You can have it, if you like."

The demon grinned and reached for the bottle. Alas, not being quite as in tune with his basic motor functions as he would have been in a slightly more sober state, he succeeded only in knocking it onto White's lap.

"Ssshit."

The young women around the pool table began to giggle, as White – looking as though he'd just had a rather embarrassing loss of bladder control - calmly placed the now empty bottle back on the table.

"Sssnot funny," the demon hissed at them: a statement that only served to increase their apparent amusement at the situation.

After a few moments the barmaid emerged from behind the bar with a lightly-stained tea towel in hand and proffered it to White.

"Would you like me to call you a taxi back to your hotel?" she asked him, quite obviously torn between amusement and concern. "Your friend doesn't look very well."

The demon, wearing a most affronted expression rose unsteadily to his feet and pointed a finger at the unfortunate woman.

"Look… whatever your name is."

The demon swayed to the left.

"Gail," she supplied, obviously uncomfortable but not particularly intimidated.

The demon swayed to the right.

"Look, Gail. I know my limits. I'll tell you when I want a bloody taxi back to the bloody- "

The demon crashed to the floor.

Gail the barmaid looked from the fallen agent of Hell to the personification of environmental corruption.

"Taxi or ambulance?" she said.

"Taxi," came the demon's muffled response.

----------

At around the same time as the demon Crowley hit the hideous swirly carpet, a Horseperson of a sicklier colour was ambling through the main ballroom of the cruise ship Persephone, amicable avian companion in tow. The ballroom itself was remarkably quiet, but then, with the sudden outbreak of sore throats and sniffles that had broken out amongst most of the passenger shortly after the ship had set off from its last port in the Philippines on the leisurely homeward journey back to Old Blighty. Gelb could have opted to take the plane, but he felt that it would be a good idea to slowly ease himself back into the old role and try out a few of his new ideas, before launching full-throttle into any kind of large scale epidemic.

Of course, it didn't do to introduce anything too… aggressive into the plethora of malicious microbes that were currently prowling the ship just yet; doing so would only force a return to port. He'd save the new-variant stomach flu for when the thing was half-way across the Atlantic. But it did do a newly reinstated Horseperson good to hear the coughs and sneezes of those who'd been resolute enough to emerge from their cabins.

Earnest certainly seemed to be enjoying himself. The guests, clearly assuming that he was some kind of Ship's mascot, seemed to have little compunction about throwing him bits of leftovers. Alas, the dear bird didn't seemed to be having much success transferring H5N1 to the humans, but Gelb lived in hope.

Taking a sip of the rotten Bloody Mary that he carried in his right hand, he looked around him. The family of five would be a good candidate for a touch of the modified measles, though the sad prevalence of vaccination amongst the children on board meant that it probably wouldn't spread; however the presence of a significant number of youngsters on board mean that a bit of scabies outbreak might be fun and those two seventeen year olds who were getting rather friendly on the dance floor could represent the start of a few new STDs. Still, he thought, as he watched Earnest waddle hopefully over to an elderly couple who seemed to have a promising amount of vole-au-vents in their possession, it didn't do an entity good to be completely preoccupied with work: do that and you ended up like Sable, completely unable to enjoy anything that wasn't strictly within the remits of his purpose. Scarlet was nearly as bad, but she did at least find time to take a holiday every few centuries. And as for the new boy, well, who knew what had happened there.

Of course, there was always old Azrael too; but Gelb had always been keenly aware that the rest of them were very much the office temps to his managing director. He smiled to himself as he recalled that time he'd caught the antithesis of creation giving a ghostly kitten the memory of a ball of yarn to play with. Gelb had always like to think that he was a little closer to him than the others, but he had to admit that this could just have been conceit on his part.

It did however come as little surprise when he caught sight of a large grey-cowled figure hovering around the buffet table and in the process of conducting a deceased fruit fly away from the mortal realm.

With a smile, Gelb headed over.

"Still in the business, I see," he said jovially.

Two empty sockets regarded him with a look that was almost pleased. ALWAYS, PESTILENCE, ALWAYS

"Back in the game myself now," he said. "Though I'm sure you knew that already."

OF COURSE

"I take it that you also know about the situation with the new boy."

YES

"What exactly is going on with him?"

I CANNOT SAY

"Do you mean that you don't know, or that you do, but you're not going to tell?"

WITH REGARD TO THE PRESENT SITUATION I KNOW MORE THAN I'LL SAY, BUT LESS THAN I WISH

Gelb gave an amicable snort, followed by a friendly bout of coughing. "Cryptic, old boy, very cryptic."

THAT WOULD BE A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE. SOME WOULD CALL IT VERY STRAIGHT FORWARD. I WILL HOWEVER TELL YOU THAT YOU HAVE SOME INCONVENIENT COMPANY ON THIS VOYAGE

His brow furrowed. "Oh, you don't mean young Earnest, do you? Not very effective yet, I know, but not much of a bother either."

Azrael however merely faded from perception.

Shaking his head, Gelb took a moment to sneeze over the food on the table, before turning around and walking back over towards Earnest, who had now succeeded in his quest to obtain edible pastry-goods from the old couple. As he drew closer to his feathered friend however he caught sight of two figures in the corner of his rheumy eyes that caused him to pause in his tracks and take a closer look.

As always, one was tall and thin and the other short and squat. Today however the infernal realms' answer to Laurel and Hardy had decided to forego their regular grubby overcoats in favour of ill-fitting tuxedos.

"Well, well, well," murmured Gelb, as Hastur and Ligur looked right back at him. "This should be interesting."

----------

"Look, are you absolutely sure that you need to bring the surfboard and scuba diving gear?" said Wensleydale, as he watched Brian try to cram said aquatic activity equipment into the back of Wensleydale's tiny Ford Fiesta. It was half-past eight in the morning and three members of the Them were standing bleary-eyed in the drive way of a medium-sized Tadfield home.

"We're going to Devon, aren't we?"

"Yes, but-"

"And there's a beach near where we're going."

"Well, yes, there's one a few miles away at a place called Summerstorm Point, but I don't think that-"

"There you go then. I'll be able to practice my surfing skills while Pepper's checking out the local bands and you're off… going round the museums, or whatever it you do on holiday."

Pepper, whose luggage had all been shoved into a black backpack that now resided in the boot, gave Brian a look of incredulity. "But you don't even know the basics of surfing. Your cousin Gary just gave you the board because his mum was making him have a clear out."

"Yeah, but that'll just mean that I'll be on a steep learning curve."

Wensleydale gaped. He hadn't realised that his friend had no actual experience of traversing the waves. "Steep as in probably fatal, you mean?"

Brian looked at him with an expression that was very nearly a pout.

"You can't take it, Brian," he said, firmly.

"Hey, it's my life."

"And it's my car. Of course, you're always free to take public transport, if you want to."

Grudgingly conceding defeat, Brian expression went from near-pout to definite-sulk. "Okay, but we'll have to drop back by my house: and my mum wasn't best pleased about me coming home last night and telling her that I was going on holiday – she wanted me to help her with the garden this week."

Wensleydale sighed. "Look, you can put it in my room until we get back."

With an unhappy sigh, Brian picked up the offending item and followed Wensleydale to the front door.

Fifteen minutes and a good deal of muttering about fascist accountancy students later the car pulled out of the driveway and headed towards the road leading out of Tadfield.

----------

When Crowley awoke, his first though was that he'd been sent back downstairs for a spell on the receiving end of whatever the guys from torments were dishing out this week. Indeed, it seemed as though there could be no other explanation for the splitting pain in his head, raging nausea churning in his gut and the way in which his eyes practically screamed to be shut when he opened them to pay witness to the horrid brightness that seemed to consume the terrible (if strangely cushioned) pit in which he now lay. No other explanation until hazy memories of laughter, liquor, worried looking barmaids and a horrible swirly carpet rising to meet him began to filter into his consciousness.

With a groan, he cursed himself for not wishing the alcohol out of his system before reaching the point of unconsciousness. Willing away the multitude of toxins that accrued in the body as the wretched stuff was metabolised was always a far more difficult job, and not one that was best undertaken when one felt as though an army of pitchfork wielding imps were playing a game of stabbity stab in one's cranium. Still, there was nothing else for it: painful experience had taught him that leaving his assumed human body to its own devices in dealing with such chemical assaults tended to only prolong the agony. Therefore, with a good deal of wincing and much gritting of teeth, the demon, eyes still screwed firmly shut to keep out the wretched daylight, set about ridding his mortal form of each noxious alcohol by-product one by one.

When it was over, he gave a relieved sigh, rolled over, opened his eyes… and saw a pale and horribly familiar form lying fast asleep next to him.

Horrified, he quite literally jumped out of bed.

The personification of Pollution shifted a little, but did not awaken.

On determining that they were both still fully clothed the horror lessened somewhat, but only slightly. The fact that he clearly hadn't done anything… anything nudity involving with the entity did not negate the fact that he'd just woken up next to him.

"What did I do last night?" he muttered, staring at the sleeping form.

From the far corner of the room there came the sound of a polite cough.

Heart stopping, Crowley spun round to see another familiar, yet far less disconcerting, fair haired form, in the room: this one sitting in the easy chair next to the chest of draws, with a disapproving yet fondly amused expression on its face.

"Well, dear boy, as far as I can determine from the evidence presented, you got blind drunk, made a complete ass of yourself and had to be carried back here – quite literally – by your young friend over there."

"Aziraphale, is that you?"

"Yes Crowley, it's me."

"What are you doing here? I thought you were book hunt- I mean, helping steer that Russian politicians back onto the straight and narrow."

"I was, until Amitiel got in touch and informed me to head on over here and help protect the soul of your latest temptation."

Crowley groaned.

The angel gave a long and distinctly unhappy sigh. "My thoughts on the matter exactly."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: As always a huge thank you goes to everybody who reviewed the last chapter. As I think I've mentioned elsewhere, the unabridge version of this story will eventually increase in rating to NC-17 (for smut). However, what I post here (i.e. the abridged version) will pretty much hover around the PG-13 mark and employ copious helpings of 'fade to black'. So if you're old enough and want to check out unabridged version you can find them in my Livejournal memories (see my profile for the link). As I said though, the version I post on will be mostly the same as the one on LJ, just with the omission of anything graphically sexual.

-

"Look, are you sure that we're going the right way?"

Wensleydale gave a prolonged and extremely long suffering sigh. It was the third time that Brian had asked the question in under an hour and he was starting to wish that he'd acquiesced to his friend's earlier request to be allowed to liberate a few of Wensleydale's mother's sleeping pills from the bathroom cabinet.

"Yes, I'm sure we're going the right way."

"It's just that it feels like we've been driving down this country lane for ages."

"That's because we have."

"But- "

"There were big, massive tailbacks on the motorway, because of that overturned lorry," snapped Wensleydale, cutting his friend off before he had the chance to further question his navigational ability. "We are therefore avoiding these aforementioned big, massive tailbacks on the motorway, which would delay our journey by up to three hours, by taking the scenic route for a while."

In the back seat, Brian scowled. "There's no need to be like that, Wensley."

Wensleydale didn't reply, the last thing he needed was to get into a full on argument with Brian whilst attempting to navigate his way along the winding stretch of track that would hopefully allow them to bypass the affected stretch of motorway.

"Why don't you read something," suggested a bleary-eyed Pepper, who was sitting in the front passenger seat and had been quietly alternating between light dozing and gazing out of the window since they set off. For all her usual outspokenness, she could be remarkably calm and patient when it came to long journeys. Brian, on the other hand, seemed to find such trips cause for unleashing his inner seven year old.

"Nothing to read," Brian replied.

"I've got one of the Sandman books over here," she said.

"Which one?"

"Season of Mists."

Brian considered this for a moment.

"All right."

As Pepper dipped into the plastic bag that resided by her feet and removed the graphic novel in question, Wensleydale gave a sigh of relief at the fact that his friend was - for the next half hour at least - occupied.

He just hoped that Brian would manage to hold off on the 'are we nearly there yet's until they were past Somerset.

----------

At around the same time that Wensleydale was navigating the wilds of Hampshire, one angel and one demon were sitting in a Willowholme tearoom and commiserating each other on the apparent absence of emotional maturity their respective divine and diabolic superiors possessed.

"I mean, I wouldn't mind, but it's not as if it's going to make any difference in the grand scheme of things," said Crowley, before taking a sip of his Darjeeling. "All this work over one completely uninteresting soul, because Dagon wants to get one over on Amitiel."

"Well, as you know, it's in my nature to care about every soul, but I can't help but think that in this case everything would work out better for everybody if, well…." The angel trailed off, a guilty expression crossing his face.

"Left the poor, boring sod to his own devices," supplied Crowley, who, as a demon, felt no obligation to actually like the orders he was given.

The guilt on Aziraphale's face intensified. "Well, yes, if you must put it like that."

"I mean, you almost wonder why Dagon couldn't just settle for, I don't know, photoshopping Amitiel into some kind of obscene picture and faxing it to him, or something."

Aziraphale's furrowed his brow in an extremely quizzical manner. "Photoshopping?"

"It's just a computer thing, don't worry about it," said Crowley, waving a dismissive hand. He really wasn't in the mood to explain the latest developments in office warfare to his angelic associate.

"I know what Photoshop is," said Aziraphale, sounding a tad affronted at the obvious assumption that he didn't. "However, I really don't think that 'photoshopping' is a verb."

"Yes, but the point is that this is all a huge waste of our time," said the demon, who found the idea of getting sidetracked into grammatical debate even more unappealing than giving a summary of the guerrilla battle tactics most commonly employed in the modern workplace.

The angel gave a sigh. "There's really nothing that either of us can do about it though. We both have our orders."

"The question is how long is it going to take? I mean, without any interference from your side I probably could have got him within a month; but now… well, it's not as if either of us can leave until either Heaven or Hell has him. Unless, of course, Dagon and Amitiel call a truce or get bored; which, let's face it, is about as likely as Pope suddenly taking to Cthulhu worship."

Aziraphale glanced around the small, doily-filled tearoom and paled slightly. It was a nice little café in a nice little town, which was almost perfect for nice little holidays and buying nice little trinkets; but it was a place that neither angel nor demon would really relish the prospect of spending any great length of time. There were no decent theatres for a start.

"You mean that we could both be doing battle here indefinitely?"

Crowley nodded. "Looks that way. Of course, I could try and tempt him into suicide, but…." He purposefully left the sentence hanging, aware that the angel would be able to mentally add the 'I'm not really into killing people', which the demon was a bit uncomfortable about saying out loud.

The angel shook his head. "Oh no, that wouldn't do at all."

"I suppose that if we are going to be forced to spend a human lifetime fighting over his soul, we could try and convince him to move to London."

Aziraphale considered this for a moment. "Well, it would give both of us chance to work on our various other projects at the same time."

Crowley nodded. "Dagon won't be pleased about it dragging on, but if I tell him that I'm up against one of Amitiel's best angels he'll probably be happy to know that he's getting under his skin."

Aziraphale's brow furrowed.

"Metaphorically speaking," Crowley added, knowing that he had to act quickly to avert a puzzled question on the subject of Amitiel's skin, and how Dagon could possibly get under it, given their respective locations.

"I could tell Amitiel that there's a much greater potential for doing good in a large city."

"So we're agreed then?" said Crowley hopefully. "We'll convince him to move as soon as possible."

"I believe that we are." Aziraphale gave a faint smile. "Of course, I do insist that I make a visit to the poor young man before your next appointment with him. Fair is fair, after all."

Crowley was almost tempted to point out that 'fair' really wasn't suppose to be a demonic personality trait, but the fact was that fair was indeed fair and such an even-handed course of action _was_ consistent with the Arrangement.

"All right, but remember to enthuse about all the good that can be done by a man of means in a big city."

"Well, of course I'll…." Aziraphale stopped in his verbal tracks as something on the other side of the room caught his attention. "Crowley, that young lady seems to be waving at you?"

Crowley looked in the direction the angel was gesturing and groaned as he saw the barmaid from the Cat and Mouse sitting at a table with the IT woman from the library and waving cheerfully in his direction. Not particularly welcoming this reminder of what had happened the previous evening; he gave a small wave of acknowledgement in return, before turning pointedly back to his cup of Darjeeling.

"Just the barmaid from one of the local pubs," he said, hoping that the angel wouldn't now move on to the subject of the previous night, but aware that said hope was probably a bit futile.

Not knowing what else to do after waking up in bed with Pollution, he'd left the sleeping entity undisturbed in his hotel room and come here with Aziraphale, who had – until now, at least – been good enough not to bring the matter up.

"The one you were at last night."

Yes, definitely a futile hope. "Yeah, that one."

"She seems like a nice, friendly sort."

"Bloody busybody, if you ask me," muttered Crowley. He really hoped that fate wouldn't necessitate that he set foot in the Cat and Mouse Inn again. It would just be too humiliating. Of course, the idea of locating everybody who'd been in the vicinity at the time of his little 'incident' and wiping away all trace of the memory was tempting; but probably not all that practical. Do that often enough and people started to attribute the blank spaces in their memory to alien abduction; and while it could be deeply amusing to watch people earnestly and very publicly talk about their extra-planetary experience that wasn't, both upstairs and downstairs tended to get a bit shirty about it.

"Look, I know this is probably none of my business but what one earth were you doing with Pollution last night?"

The demon gave a sigh. "Weird story."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Do tell."

Aware that the angel's nosy streak wouldn't be satisfied until he'd given a satisfactory narrative of the events that had led to him waking up in bed next to the youngest of the Horsepersons, he briefly described the series of peculiar and not so peculiar occurrences that had led to him being put to bed by Pollution. When he'd finished, the angel did not respond right away, seeming to be in need of a few moments in which to digest the information his associate had just imparted.

When he eventually spoke however, his tones were far more serious than Crowley expected.

"So he's stopped fulfilling his role?"

The demon gave a shrug. "Looks like it."

"Well, it certainly explains a few things."

"What do you mean?"

"Haven't you been keeping up with current events?"

"Of course I have."

"Then surely you'll be aware of what he's doing, the problems he's causing: the recyclable plastic bags, the no-emission cars, the new zero-waste water treatment procedures-"

"Hang on," said Crowley. "Why are any of those things problems? I thought your lot would be all for taking care of the environment."

"Of course I'm all for taking care of then environment," said Aziraphale in mildly affronted tones. "It's just that it's not humans doing it. He's supposed to be a manifestations of one of their darker inclinations, but instead he's influencing them in ways they don't seem to have control over. It's not right, dear boy. Not right at all."

"He's just decided that he doesn't want the job any more," the demon pointed out. "It isn't as though he's actively doing anything untoward to them. I mean, okay he's in the middle of an existential crisis that would embarrass even the most naval-gazing-prone undergraduate philosophy student, but it's not as if he's trying to influence anything."

Aziraphale sighed. "That doesn't really matter though. He's affecting them by his inaction."

Crowley was about to argue when it dawned upon him that he seemed to be going out of his way to defend Pollution and his strange - even by Horsepersonly standards - behaviour. He therefore opted instead to point out that there was really nothing that either of them could do to alter the situation.

"You could try and convince him to go back to doing his job," suggested Aziraphale, in tones that strongly implied that this wasn't an entirely serious suggestion.

The demon snorted. "Somehow I don't think that one would work."

"Oh, I don't know," said the angel, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards, "he did look awfully comfortable with you this morning."

Deeply embarrassed Crowley looked back down at the table once more. "Look, can we please agree never to talk about that again."

Aziraphale's lips merely proceeded to curve further. "Sorry dear boy but fair is fair, you still bring up the Champagne Fair debacle from time to time."

The angel had him there.

"What about the whole 'turning the other cheek' thing?"

"You've clearly had a dreadful influence on me, dear chap." Aziraphale chuckled, the seriousness that had overcome him just a few moments ago appearing to have all but dissipated. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe that it's my turn to pay a visit to Mr. Goode."

"Should we meet again later today to discuss further relocation strategy?" asked Crowley.

Aziraphale considered this for several moments. "I think that tomorrow afternoon would be best. We could go for a walk in the water gardens."

"Fair enough," said the demon. "Tomorrow afternoon in the water gardens it is."

As he waved the angel goodbye, Crowley wondered whether Pollution would still be there when he returned to his hotel room. Most of him desperately hoped he wouldn't, but there was a small part that wondered what would happen if he was.

----------

Duke Hastur was not a happy demon.

He hadn't wanted to leave his domain in the Seventh Circle. Nor had he been in any way enthusiastic about being placed at the forefront of Hell's new Seduction to Darkness and Death initiative. Hastur, quite rightly in many respects, considered himself to be a master craftsman in the arena of one-on-one temptation. He was the kind of diabolic entity who liked to finely chip away at a righteous soul until a picture of unbridled greed, lust or pride was revealed. It therefore went against every unnatural inclination he had to engage in the kind of cheap mass produced temptation that his infernal overlords had directed him to. However, he was more than aware that he had been very fortunate to retain his title - and indeed his existence - after the whole Armageddon debacle; and that such leniency always had a hefty price tag attached.

Technically he was suppose to have Ligur to aid him; but he couldn't help but feel that his long time lurking companion wasn't going to be a great deal of use. The repeated holy water dousing flashbacks that the short, squat demon kept having made it difficult for him to sustain a dialogue with a human long enough to convince them that stealing money from their senile old granny was a good way to pay off the interest on that troublesome bank loan. People seemed to find the abrupt – and distinctly girlish – shrieks of terror he'd start to emit mid-temptation to be a bit off putting and generally responded by backing away in a slow and very deliberate manner. His tendency to have a mental melt-down every time he saw a bucket wasn't very helpful either.

No, it was Hastur who was carrying this mission and he was very definitely not enjoying himself.

The idea that he'd come up with for their first mass temptation was to board a cruise ship, incite all the occupants on-board to engage in the most sordid acts of sexual depravity he could think of (which, when it came down to it was really nothing compared to what humans were capable of coming up with by themselves), before sinking the vessel in the middle of the Indian Ocean and damning most of the crew and passengers, before any of them had the chance to meet their demise while swept up in the environmentalist fervour that seemed to be raging across the globe.

It was a sound plan. A workable plan. A plan that Hell's higher ups would doubtless approve of.

Alas, there was currently a rather large metaphorical spanner in the works.

It – or rather 'he' – was called Pestilence.

The fact was that when attempting to incite a cross-generational mass orgy the last thing you want is for ninety percent of the potential participants to be afflicted with a bad and sexually off-putting case of the sniffles. It tended to put something of a dampener on things. The best Hastur had therefore managed to do that evening was help along a few isolated fumbles.

Well, he wasn't going to take it. That clapped-out, past-it old Horseperson needed to be put in his place and Hastur was just the demon to do it.

It was for this reason that he and Ligur were currently skulking outside the entity's cabin. They'd been hanging around for over two hours now with the intention of greeting the present thorn in their sides as soon as he stepped out of the door and expressing their grievances in the most direct and painful manner possible.

"Ere, you don't think that he's escaped, do you?" said a shaky sounding Ligur. He'd been on edge for the last half hour, since one of the cleaning staff had passed by with an overfilled mop bucket.

"Nah, he's in there all right," said Hastur. "I can hear that little duck of his honking."

"Funny fing really, for a personification to 'ave a little pet like that." 

Hastur gave a loud groan at the almost wistful expression that settled on his compatriot's face. "For the sake of all that's unholy Ligur, it just wouldn't have been practical to bring along that bloody tentacle monster of yours."

Ligur glowered. "I've been training her up for the next Infernal Creatures of the Deep Show. Now I've got to leave her with my minions and you know what they're like. They'll overfeed her."

"Yeah, well, we've got more important things to worry about than you getting the black ribbon for Most Monstrous Monster. Got to sort this sickly bastard out, for a start."

"Do you think we should knock?" said Ligur.

Hastur fixed him with a glare. "What, not up to another few hours of lurking? Losing your touch, are you?"

Looking distinctly hurt by the implication, Ligur gave a snarl. "Course I'm not. Just don't see the point of lurking around 'ere all night. I mean, it's not like it's proper lurking is it? The bleedin' walls are pastel blue."

This, Hastur had to concede, was true. The place was about as grim and atmospheric as that IKEA catalogue he'd once caught one of his imps reading.

"All right, we'll knock, but remember the drill. When he answers, you grab and I loom at him."

Ligur nodded.

Hastur raised his fist and knocked.

For several moments there was no response. Then, just as Hastur was mentally debating whether to forcibly enter the cabin, the door opened.

"Do come in," rasped a cheerful and welcoming voice from the far side of the room.

Aware that Plan A AKA _Grab Him When He Answers The Door_ was now out, Hastur and Ligur cautiously entered the cabin. Like all the other cabins in this part of the ship it was a luxurious affair; with plush carpet and a large comfortable bed. Unlike all the other cabins in this part of the ship however, there were large patches of slime on the walls and a small congregation of cockroaches on the floor. There was also a plastic pail filled with some kind of film-covered liquid, the sight of which caused Ligur to visibly recoil (though to his credit he did manage inhibit the girly shriek he wanted to let loose).

"Ah, your Disgraces, a most unexpected pleasure," Pestilence wheezed. The entity was reclining on the bed and idly flipping through an old epidemiology journal.

"We want a word, Pestilence."

"Yeah, we want a word," reiterated Ligur, the threatening note in his voice almost completely offset by the fact that he kept taking fearful glances at the pail.

"Oh, what about?" enquired Pestilence, showing no sign of fear whatsoever.

It was as he was about to step forward and exact retribution for Pestilence's frustration of their plans for mass temptation that Hastur was suddenly, and without warning, stricken by the itch.

It was the kind of itch that starts as a small yet rather persistent irritation in a localised and rather personal location, but very quickly morphs into a severe and very persistent irritation that consumes the whole body.

"About your little game," said Hastur, trying to fight back the urge to scratch himself.

"Yeah," said Ligur, looking similarly uncomfortable.

Pestilence's brow furrowed. "My little… game?"

"You know with the whatdyoucallit…." Hastur risked a quick scratch. Unfortunately this seemed to exacerbate the itch rather than quench it. "The sickness."

Pestilence's sore-covered lips curved into a cheerful smile. "Oh, you're interested in my work."

"Er, well…." Unable to keep his thoughts focussed on the menacing at hand, Hastur opted to halt any attempt at dignity-preserving restraint and began to scratch himself in earnest. Alas, the more he scratched the more the accursed itch seemed to spread. "Well, we just wanted to say that…."

"Yes?"

It was all too much. He was here to inflict severe pain, yet every time he moved, spoke or indeed thought, the itch grew more and more unbearable. Realising that both he and Ligur had been rendered incapable of action, he grabbed the shorter demon, who was also engaged in a bout of fervent scratching, and yanked him towards the door.

"Never mind, we'll come back later."

As the two unfortunate Dukes of Lurk exited Pestilence's temporary domain, Avian Flu Earnest gave a quizzical quack.

"Oh them, just two rather imbecilic creatures from the infernal realms," Pestilence said, waving a dismissive and scab encrusted hand. "More powerful and bothersome than most, but nothing that I can't handle. Although I would ask you to keep away from them if possible. After all, we wouldn't want anything to happen to you and your precious viral cargo, eh Earnest."

Earnest quacked heartily in assent, before tucking his head under his wing and drifting into a long and well earned snooze. Being Pestilence's favoured Avian Flu carrier was, after all, a rather tiring job.

----------

As Earnest went to sleep, White woke up.

It was the second time he had woken up in his existence and the experience was proving to be far different from the first. For one thing, he wasn't lying in a field and caked in wet mud. For another… well, the pictures that had been passing through his head immediately prior to said awakening were rather more memorable.

There had been him, lying unclothed and exposed on the white, sterile floor of a toxicology laboratory he'd briefly worked in six years ago. And there had been somebody else. Somebody else with pronounced cheekbones, a head of dark hair and a hot mouth that made him squirm happily as it trailed its way over his neck and chest, before briefly dipping into his naval. Somebody else, who could have been one of two entities. 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Huge thank you to everybody who reviewed the last chapter. Sorry I haven't been able to update for a while, but work's been rather hectic over the last month or so and I haven't had much enough time or energy for creative endeavours. As with the last chapter, this instalment has been edited slightly (though only very slightly) to keep it PG-13. The unabridged version can, of course, be found be found in my livejournal memories (see profile for link).

-

Ten minutes after Aziraphale had departed from the teashop Crowley took one last sip of his Darjeeling, stood up and dropped a ten pound note on the table; secure in the knowledge that the waitress who pocketed the overly-generous tip would use it to fund the further expansion of her cocaine habit. The chimes above the entrance gave a mildly grating tinkle as he opened the door and stepped out onto the side street on which the little café stood.

Outside it was a bright, sunny day, with throngs of daytrippers milling about the trinket shops and various purveyors of light refreshments that accounted for ninety-five percent of the land usage in this part of town. For a few moments Crowley mentally debated whether to go back to his hotel room and try and get a nice twenty-four hours shuteye whilst his angelic counterpart made his first move with the object of their mutual influence. However, apprehension at the thought of returning to find Pollution still contentedly dozing in his bed, dissuaded him from immediately following this course of action.

Besides, the climate was perfect for a little light temptation and leisurely sin incitement. It was the kind of bright, sunny 'nice weather' that drove people out in their masses owing to the deep-seated and decidedly English sentiment that it was a crime to waste a such a day by not stripping down to the bear sartorial essentials and heading into the direct glare of the midday sun. The kind of bright, sunny, humid, sticky 'nice weather' that never failed to make babies cry, children fuss, adults bad tempered and teenagers horny.

He therefore sauntered down the side-street and out into a little shopping plaza known as Worthy Square, where he immediately set about sending subliminal encouragement to all the would-be shoplifters in the area, with little mental promptings such as 'it's not as though they'll miss a couple of t-shirts' and 'just think of how much the bastards must be making'. It was easy work for the most part: the majority of the thieves in waiting were already inwardly scrabbling around for a justification for liberating that dress or that lampshade or those incense sticks from the shelves unpaid; and hearing it from a voice in their heads that sounded a little more confident that their usual attempts at rationalisation. There were, of course, a small number of who still seemed intent on clinging to the whole 'stealing is fundamentally wrong' mindset despite the siren call of materialistic temptation, but a fair few them crumbled on hearing the mental voice turn philosophical and point out that the world itself was also fundamentally wrong and screwed up, so another wrong act wouldn't really add very much to the net amount wrongness in said world, and for G— somebody's sake, it's only a novelty tea towel anyway. As for the remainder, well, fair play to them. Some people just point blank refused to give into a particular temptation.

After growing bored of the shoplifters and their inherently petty mindsets, Crowley began to contemplate setting something a little more large scale in motion. Three of the less local heritage obsessed members of the Town Planning Committee were currently standing in the middle of the square and discussing the weather. A perfect opportunity, if ever there was one, to saunter over and suggest that the rewards of allowing a few more chain stores into the area would, in addition to providing a much needed boost to the local economy that any right minded person would support, also be lucrative on a rather more personal level.

He was about to approach the little group when he spotted Leon Waters and two of his band mates having a heated argument outside _Infinite Wisdom Scented Candles_.

Leon was shouting something about the rest of the band 'blowing another big chance', while one of the other two: a tall and beanpole-like young man with ineptly dyed black hair was trying to say something about them 'not being ready for a big gig yet'. The other boy, who was, physically speaking, average in just about every way, seemed to be ineffectually attempting to play peacemaker.

Eventually, after a good deal more shouting and a fair few obscene gestures, the beanpole stormed off, quickly followed by the would-be peacemaker.

Deciding that the Town Planning trio could wait for a while, Crowley headed over to the young man who currently in poll position on his People to Voluntarily Tempt Whilst in Willowholme list. True the kid had been there for his deeply embarrassing display of intoxication management failure the previous night, but he was also young enough to find that sort of thing impressive rather than pathetic.

"Trouble with the band?" he said, by way of greeting, in tones that could probably best be described as sympathetic flippancy. It didn't do to show too much of a proprietorial interest in a person at the start of a temptation, it tended to make them rightly suspicious of one's intentions.

Leon, who was clearly distressed but trying his damnedest not to show it, gave a shrug. "They've got no bleeding ambition."

"Oh?"

"We got offered a gig this Friday. You know, a proper one in a proper club. But Carl wants to turn it down and Mike and Brandon are siding with him. They reckon that we're not ready for anything that big yet. Think we should do a few poky little pubs around here first. Not that any of them'll let us play. Course, part of it is that Brandon can't afford to go to Manchester. But that's okay because Mike's parents have got a minivan and they'll be in Spain that week, so it's not like he'd have to lug his guitar up there on the train or anything."

He raised an eyebrow. "Manchester?"

"Yeah, at Saint Delilah's. It used to be an old church or something, but now they do live metal bands three times a week. It's where Goil got their big break back when they were All Hale Saytun."

Ah yes, Crowley remembered that one. He hadn't been involved, of course. Out of courtesy to Aziraphale he tended to refrain from attempting to pervert the usage of the country's more historically and architecturally significant places of worship, even when it came to Crowley's pet cities. However, he had been impressed by the way that the entrepreneurial soul leading that particular little venture had somehow extracted planning permission to turn the three hundred year old Saint Daniel's Anglican Church into Saint Delilah's Sordid S&M Themed Rock Club. Even with unlimited cash and infernal powers on one's side, getting a city council to approve so much as a request to repaint the door of a Grade 2 listed building was about as easy as trying to convince Michael that waving about a flaming sword isn't the only way to get one's point across.

"Jenny from work's cousin's the owner. He was down here visiting a couple of months ago and he said he'd think about booking us lot if he ever needed a support act at short notice."

"And now your mates have got cold feet?" Crowley couldn't help but shake his head at what an utter cliché Leon was: the small town boy with dreams of fame, fortune and never having to do another shift at the local lending library, whose ambition far exceeded that of his friends (who'd primarily gone along with the whole band idea in the hope that it might impress a few of the town's young women).

Leon nodded glumly.

Had Satanic Firetrap been a little more established in the local music scene (limited as it was), he would have suggested that the young man immediately ditch his mates and hook up with a group of more driven and less grounded musicians (whilst all the while inwardly shaking his head at the fact that, despite the warnings given by the multitudes of sad, used-up, has-beens that littered the nation's dive bars and reality television shows, they were so very desperate to seize the first available fifteen minute slot of fame). However, the fact was that for Leon to get noticed he needed the rest of the band.

"How much is he going to pay you?" said Crowley.

"Pay me?" Leon's brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"You know; the club's owner."

A look of mild embarrassment settled on the boy's face. "I, er… I didn't ask."

Crowley fought the urge to shake him by the shoulders and demand to know how the hell he hoped to survived for more than two minutes in the music industry with a mentality like that. For a brief moment he felt a wholly undemonic twinge of discomfort about the fact he was trying to set this ambitious, yet completely clueless, youth off on the footpath towards tragic – if glamorous – ruin.

"Maybe if you found that out your friends might be a bit more agreeable."

"Yeah, I suppose," said Leon, doubtfully. "Anyway, I better be off. I've got to go and visit my Gran in Summerstorm Point this afternoon. It's her seventy-seventh birthday."

"All right then, see you around."

With that Crowley set off towards the other end of the square, forcibly brushing away the discomfort and making a mental note to get in touch with the owner of Saint Delilah's and ensure that the reluctant members of Satanic Firetrap were made an offer they couldn't refuse.

----------

Hastur was furious.

Not only he and Ligur been stalled in their endeavour to inflict severe pain on the personification of disease and putrefaction, they'd also been severely humiliated in the process.

"What did he do to us?" said Ligur, who was still scratching himself. "There I was getting ready to punch him one and then this bleedin' itching started."

"I don't know," snarled Hastur, as he paced the untidy cabin that he and his companion in lurk had appropriated. Thankfully his itch had stopped the moment they'd left the corridor on which Pestilence was residing; however, the extremely irritating wound to his pride would take far longer to diminish. "But if he thinks he's getting away with it the greasy bastard's got another thing coming."

"So how are we going to get him then?"

"I'm still thinking about it," snapped Hastur, who, while determined to make the entity pay for this humiliation, was still a bit unsure of how they were actually going to manage this.

Ligur muttered something under his breath about the vengeful uses of tentacle monsters.

"Oh for the abhorrence of all that is holy Ligur, will you stop bringing up your sodding octopus. Anybody would think that you can't bear to be parted from the bloody thing."

"Octopus!" Ligur spat. "You're calling Lady Oceanica Diabolica the Terrible a bleedin' _octopus_?"

Hastur gave a frustrated growl. "The point that I am trying to make is that she isn't here right now," he said through clenched fangs. "And it's not as though anybody from the Infernal Creatures' Registry would let you bring her up here neither. Not after that succubus told them about that thing what you did with the pedigree papers for Pazuzu's flesh eating scarabs."

"I was just saying that it would be good if she was 'ere," said Ligur in distinctly sulky tones. "That'd show the scabby bastard."

Hastur, demonstrating hitherto un-reached levels of restrain, managed to stop himself from pointing out that Ligur's many tentacled pet of the deep had about as much aptitude for effective carnage as a day old hamster.

"Yeah, but it's _us_ what has to deal with him this time."

"But we don't have any proper ideas what to do with him, do we?" Ligur pointed out.

Hastur scowled. "I already told you that I'll think of something. Just need to consider the situation a bit more, that's all. Figure out how to get to him before he can mess about with us." The scowl slowly morphed into a deeply unpleasant sneer. "Oh, yes, Pestilence, we'll get you…. You and your little duck."

----------

Like self-help books and human conversation, television was something that White had neglected to demonstrate even the most cursory of interests in when not specifically related to his role as the personification of pollution.

For the last two and a half hours however his eyes had been unwaveringly fixed on the small set that resided on top of a shelf opposite the demon's hotel bed. He'd always been aware that human's were wont to spend long periods of time sat in front of the box with the moving lights. The fact that they seemed capable of doing this when the world was quite literally degrading around them had frequently given him a sense of delight. He had not however ever experienced the pull of the contraption himself.

Well, not until now.

It was, he was finding, amazing the way that you could suspend consideration of your own existence in favour of somebody else's. Frequently a somebody else who didn't actually exist and whose non-existent existence was far different from your own.

Right now White was immersing himself in the non-existent existence of two policemen who worked in a sleepy English county called Midsommer: a location that seemed to have a gruesome slaughter rate that Carmine would have been proud of. It was far more absorbing than the morning news, which had mainly featured stories about the rapidly growing numbers of people killed in ill-advised acts of litter picking and other such tedious environmentalist endeavours. He had however been briefly thrown out of his apathy towards current affairs by an interview with one Dr. Raven Sable about the current controversy over his new diet book.

On recalling his dream and what had come directly afterwards, he found himself having a most unusual reaction to seeing his fellow Horseperson reassuring the ITV health reporter, and by proxy the rest of the nation, that 'slimming oneself to the next level' was a perfectly safe endeavour, despite those extremely rare and barely statistically significant deaths that the medical scaremongers were prattling on about at the moment. Cheeks suddenly feeling inexplicably hot, half of White had been seized by the urge to hastily avert his eyes and change the channel, while the other half had desperately wanted to stare at length the slim form with the dark hair, dark eyes and thin lips.

In the end he'd found his gaze flitting between the sticky sheets in which he was still cocooned and his colleagues visage, which seemed intent as the dream had been in bring to life that flesh that until now had only ever been stirred by environmental catastrophe. There was something that stopped his hand from straying under the sheets, drifting over his belly and taking hold of the latest arousal however. He couldn't quite fathom why, but there was a feeling of… unease at the thought of intentionally touching himself in such a way while pretending that it was a co-worker, or at least _former_ co-worker's hand that stroked him to completion.

It had been both a relief and a disappointment when the bulletin had ended and he'd been thrown into the rural world of Chief Constable Barnaby and Sergeant Troy. Though there was still a lingering sensation of excitement mixed with apprehension that coursed through him as he tried to decide whether it was the local baker or estate agent who looked a bit like the demon Crowley, who had murdered the treasurer of the Badger's Drift Sculpture Appreciation Society.

Though the estate agent did not have quite the same immediately magnitude of effect on White's off-kilter (or perhaps alternate-kilter) libido that the interview with Sable had had, the scene where the character began to unbutton his shirt did induce White to start imagining what the demon would look like whilst in the process of removing his clothes.

Strangely, this did not induce quite the same amount of anxiety that picturing Sable in a similar state of undress had done. But then again, he hadn't spent his entire existence working alongside the demon. Nor had he ever really, what was the phrase, 'looked up' to him. Though he had found that while conversing with the demon had not lessened the all pervading sense of purposelessness that had filled him since he had lost interest in his function, he had, well, been entertained by the demon's company and observations.

Therefore, when the needy ache in his loins began to rise once more and his fingers almost involuntarily crept under the blankets and over his belly he didn't even consider staying his hand.

------------

Brian cried out.

Pepper gasped.

Wensleydale blanched with horror as he brought the car to a screeching halt.

Seemingly unconcerned about the fact that she'd just stepped out in front of a vehicle going at just under seventy miles per hour on one of England's busiest motorways the young woman who'd very nearly caused three out of four of the Them to experience cardiac arrest picked up the beer can that lay two inches from the front bumper, before cheerfully heading back over to the white Fiat Punto that resided on the hard shoulder and driving away.

For several seconds none of them were able to speak.

"Wensley are you okay?" Brian managed eventually, as his friend, who was for the moment in no fit psychological stage to continue driving, pulled onto the hard shoulder.

"She just walked out right in front of me," said Wensleydale, a slight – and completely understandable – jibber to his voice.

"Mental," muttered a stunned Pepper. "It's like everybody's gone completely mental."

Brian nodded. "You could have written the first two off as escaped mental patients. I mean, they were out trying to pick litter up from the dual carriageway in their dressing gowns, but… but that bloke we saw suddenly diving into that filthy looking river and trying to pull out the plastic bags just looked like he was on his way to work in the City of London, or somewhere."

"Er, guys," said Wensleydale, jibber beginning to lessen a little. "You don't mind if we take the scenic route for the rest of the way, do you. I mean, it'll take a few hours longer, but—"

"Less possibility of encountering suicidal litter pickers," finished Pepper. "Go for it Wensley."

"Yeah," agreed Brian. "There are just too many weirdoes out here today."

As a mostly recovered, but still visibly shaken, Wensleydale pulled back out into the traffic, each of the Them found themselves more eager than ever to be reunited with Adam. Things like this always felt less worrying with him around.

----------

After few more petty temptations and a nice chat with a down on his luck member of the Willowholme Town Planning Committee, Crowley swallowed his apprehension and headed back to the Willow Tree Hotel.

The Bentley was, he was pleased to observe, still in standing un-parking ticketed and in pristine condition in its specially conjured parking spot in front of the hotel. So, not feeling obliged to afflict the local traffic wardens with embarrassing ailments, he headed inside and up the stairs.

On coming to the door of his room he paused for a moment, wondering what the H— Milton Keynes he'd do if his guest was still in there, before deciding that if this was the case he'd just have to play things by ear. He therefore unlocked the door, walked in… and promptly came to a startled halt.

There, in the middle of the bed was Pollution, eyes shut, body writhing pale skin slick with what seemed to be some kind of petrochemical and hand wrapped around a full blown erection.

"I…er… I'm sorry I didn't…erm… I can… can come back when you're not… not…."

Grey eyes flickered open.

"Hello demon. I was just thinking about you."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Big, big thank you to the readers who reviewed the last chapter. As with a few previous chapter, this one has been edited slightly (though only very slightly) to keep it PG-13. The unabridged version can, of course, be found be found in my livejournal memories (see profile for link).

-

To say that Crowley found the whole situation a tad awkward and uncomfortable was an understatement on a par with saying that Aziraphale had a passing interest in books or that Hastur liked the occasional lurk; and, for the second time within the space of twenty-four hours, he found himself reduced to the startled goldfish impersonation. After around forty seconds of wordless gaping, during which the only clear thought that filled his mind was a very loud and resounding _What The Fuck_, Crowley managed to regain basic vocal capabilities.

"You were what?" he croaked.

Pollution, who had ceased writhing but was making no move to either cover himself up, regarded him with glazed eyes.

"Thinking about you," the entity said, voice suddenly taking on what sounded like it might just be a tinge of apprehension.

Crowley gave a weak 'oh'. Surely he couldn't be implying that he… he…?

"I had a dream, I think," said Pollution. "You might have been in it."

The demon's eyes widened. Common sense momentarily warred with morbid curiosity, as the former told him loudly and unequivocally to leave the room now and never return, while the latter demanded he determine whether the entity was implying what he possibly, maybe seemed to be implying.

In the end curiosity won.

"Er, when you say 'might have been in it' what exactly do you mean?"

"I dreamed that somebody was licking me. It could have been you."

Crowley was dimly aware of his jaw dropping at the statement, but was rather more concerned by the sudden jolt of excitement he found his body involuntarily experiencing.

_Oh for Somebody's sake_, he mentally cursed. He couldn't possibly be getting aroused by the idea, could he? All right, Pollution did possess a highly attractive physical form, what with all that pale skin, faded blonde hair, slender, well formed body and fine boned face; but the world was full of beings with highly attractive physical forms and Pollution was, well, Pollution: the personification of environmental wastage and ruination.

"You're shocked," said Pollution. Crowley wasn't quite sure if it was an enquiry or a plain observation.

Deciding that tact, subtlety and skirting around the issue was not the way to go in this situation Crowley looked the entity in the eye. "About the fact that you've just told me I _'might have been'_ taking a starring role in your dirty dreams? Of course I'm bloody shocked."

For a few extremely worrying moments Pollution regarded him with another of those indecipherable expressions. "Oh, they weren't very dirty," he said. "The laboratory was actually very clean before the accident. I remember that it was so sterile I almost couldn't stand it, but it was worth it in the end. At least, that's how it felt at the time. Now I can't really understand why I cared so much about it."

Crowley's eyes widened further as he mentally debated whether he wanted to know how a laboratory figured into the whole sordid scenario. In the end he decided that he didn't. Even the demon Crowley's curiosity had its limits. "I didn't mean dirty in a literal sense, I meant…." He trailed off as Pollution's unreadable expression morphed into something that looked like it could best be described as 'wounded perplexity'.

"Look, never mind; let's just say I find the idea of you dreaming about me... me licking you a bit disturbing." He decided not to mention that he found the idea of Pollution masturbating to anything to be deeply unsettling full stop. The demon really wasn't sure how thin the ice upon which he was walking really was right now (or indeed if he was walking on any kind of ice at all).

"Why?"

It was a simple, direct question asked in a bewildered, almost naïve manner, and one that Crowley didn't really have a blessed clue how to answer.

"Well, it's… it's not generally something that you go around telling people."

"But you asked."

This, Crowley had to concede, was completely true. If he'd fled the moment he'd registered what the entity was doing like the sensible, rational part of his mind had told him to, he could have shaken his head and put it down as just another weird, slightly disconcerting incident he'd witnessed during an existence that had been filled with many such weird and slightly disconcerting sights. However, as things stood, he now knew that he had somehow become the focus of the Horseperson's erotic fantasies and was severely freaked out.

"Do you want me to leave?" asked Pollution, after a lengthy and – from Crowley point of view at least - uncomfortable silence.

"Yes, yes please," said Crowley, wishing as soon as the words left his mouth that he didn't sound so desperately eager to get rid of the entity. Pollution might not currently be holding a grudge vis-à-vis the apocalypse that wasn't, but he was still deeply averse to placing himself on the personification's 'To Be Scourged' list.

Without a word, Pollution slid of the bed, leaving a chemical sheen in his wake and proceeded to dress himself in the, now very rumpled clothing that Crowley had materialised for him the previous day, before silently exiting the room.

When he was certain that the entity was well and truly gone, Crowley breathed a sigh of relief and set about trying to will the bed back into some semblance of cleanliness. With any luck the personification would find somebody or something else to occupy that wandering, unfocussed mind of his.

Crowley just wished that that look of utter disappointment on Pollution's face as he left had caused him to experience such an unpleasant, queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach.

----------

It took Aziraphale just a few minutes of conversation with Howard Goode to ascertain that the poor man exactly as Crowley described: kind, pious and not the least bit suited to becoming a metaphorical battleground in the latest skirmish between good and evil (or at least good and evil's grudge bearing bureaucrats).

The angel had turned up at the Willowholme lending library, where the man worked a Saturday afternoon shift and introduced himself as a friend of a deceased local vicar, with whom Howard's family had been closely acquainted. This was not a lie. Aziraphale had enjoyed exchanging frequent correspondence with the late Reverend Rustford who had been a fellow Regency silver snuffbox enthusiast and Antique Roadshow devotee.

"He was a great bloke," said Howard as he placed a set of dog eared Charles Dickens paperbacks on a shelf labelled _Classics_. Aziraphale, avid bibliophile that he was, couldn't help but feel a little horrified at the distressed state that most of the books in the library seemed to have fallen into. "He used to visit my grandmother every evening after granddad died."

"He was always very considerate," said Aziraphale, decidedly not mentioning the fact that the man had once guiltily confided to him that he was having a long term affair with a married woman whom he'd known since his schooldays.

"Not that the new one isn't, of course," Howard continued, as he inserted a poor, mortally tattered copy of Hard Times between David Copperfield and Little Dorrit. "But I always felt more… more connected to the old vicar."

Aziraphale politely refrained from pointing out that this was quite possibly because there was a fifty-fifty chance that the man had been his grandfather and instead listened to the man talk about what an inspiration the Reverend Rustford had been. There was, to Aziraphale's mind, something both worrying and endearing about the utter genuineness and sincerity with which Howard Goode spoke about his faith. Endearing, because so very few openly pious people were genuinely, well, pious. Worrying, because those who wore their hearts so openly on their sleeves tended to rather vulnerable to long term bruising of the soul.

"Will you be staying in Willowholme for long, Mr. Fell?" the man asked, once he'd finished reminiscing about the sponsored walks, litter picks and parachute jumps for famine relief the reverend had organised during the last few years of his life.

"Well, that really depends on how my latest little project goes."

"Project?"

"I'm interested in finding out more about the town." This was, strictly speaking, not an untruth. Aziraphale _was_ interested in looking around the place while he was there and doing as much good as the Arrangement would allow. He just hoped that Howard wouldn't press for any details that would require any kind of serious truth distortion.

"We have a lot of books in the reference library about local history. Though you do need permission from Isobel to get access to the older records; they're a bit delicate, you see."

Aziraphale involuntarily shuddered at the thought of the treatment that delicate manuscripts would receive in this den of book mistreatment. The angel had always been somewhat torn on the idea of public libraries. One the one hand he was all for helping to facilitate the joy of reading. On the other, he never failed to shudder at the fates that seemed to befall the poor tomes that lined the shelves of such places.

"And I'm sure that Reverend Hailey would be more than happy to let you look at the church records."

The angel was about to thank him for the kind offer when a truly horrifying sight caught his eyes. Three younger teenagers were sitting at a table in the non-fiction area and in the process of sadistically taking a red biro to a defenceless atlas.

"Oh no, not again," said Howard, with a sigh, after turning to see what had caught his new acquaintance's attention.

"You mean this happens frequently?" he asked, utterly aghast, as a middle-aged woman wearing a name badge that proclaimed her to be Isobel Black: Head Librarian walked over and delivered a sharp telling off, which, if the youngsters' smirks were anything to go on, didn't have much of an impact.

Howard gave a regretful nod. "We've had a bit of a book vandalism problem for a while now."

"And you haven't done anything about it?"

"Oh, we try," the man said helplessly, "but nothing seems to work. People just don't seem to respond to the _Please Don't Write In The Books_ signs."

For a few seconds the angel's expression hardened as he thought of all the poor violated tomes that must lie upon libraries ineffectually guarded shelves, before settling back once again into it's previously amicable state.

"Mr. Goode," he said. "I think I might be able to help."

----------

Half an hour after Pollution had gone Crowley forcefully pushed all niggling thoughts about the Horseperson aside, got out his mobile phone and called one of his London offices.

Ten minutes later he was being connected the private line of one Luke Mackenzie, owner and proprietor of Saint Delilah's. After seven rings the phone was answered.

"Hello, Macca 'ere," came a gravelly, cheerful voice on the other end.

"Hi, this is A.J. Crowley from—."

"Heard of mate, heard of you," said the man, whose accent was probably best described as 'Mancunian with East End overtones'. "You were the bloke who got Big D signed, aren't you?"

"That's right," said Crowley, inwardly shaking his head at the fact that white, Home Counties rapper 'Big D' and his 'Little Whinging Home Boys' had recently enjoyed such astronomical success.

"Got him and Goil doing a special joint gig at Delilah's this Saturday," he said proudly. "Goil got signed straight after their first gig at my club, you know. Great night that was, great night… well, until we found the collection human eyeballs in the ice bucket, but then, that's the creative temperament for you. And they did apologise for the hassle."

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about a band you've got playing this Friday."

"What, Necrotic Future?"

"Satanic Firetrap, actually."

"Them boys from Willowholme?"

"Those are the ones."

"Well, truth be told I wouldn't usually give a spot to a bunch of kids who haven't so much as played a local boozer, but I've just had two bands cancel on me: one lot are in hospital those riots in London on Thursday and the other's bass player's just been killed in a freak litter picking accident."

Crowley's brow furrowed. "Freak litter picking accident?"

The man gave a snort. "I know. Mental isn't it? But then there's been a lot of that whole 'Green Fever' thing going on round here. Anyway, fortunately for me, this German guy – one of Goil's new security blokes, as luck would have it – offered to do this mind reading and hypnotism thing, so I booked him as a bit of a novelty item. But I needed another band and there was nobody else available, so I thought, what the hell, let's give that Leon a ring. Haven't confirmed they can make it yet though."

"Maelbolge Records are thinking of signing them," said Crowley.

"Bleeding hell."

"Of course, the band's having a few financial difficulties—"

"Look, I'm not made of money, Mr. Crowley," the man interjected, obviously having a very clear idea of the direction in which the conversation was heading. "I'll pay 'em seventy quid apiece and a few rounds on the house. I mean, my little cousin Jenny has heard them practicing and she says the bassist still has trouble hitting the right cords."

"Well, obviously we couldn't expect you to foot the bill," said Crowley. "However, if we gave you the money and you give the money to the boys, then I'm sure things would work out fine."

"Why don't you just give them the cash upfront?" the man asked, sounding perplexed.

"Because we don't want them to know we're thinking of signing them yet," said Crowley.

For a moment there was a long pause and the demon began to fear that Mackenzie would start to ask awkward questions. Fortunately, the man was distracted when a second, rather urgent sounding, voice on the other end of the line said something about 'the Japanese vice squad'.

"All right," said Mackenzie, "how much are you giving them."

Crowley told him.

There was another long pause.

"Bleeding hell, you're mental."

As he pressed the 'end call' button the demon made a mental note to bestow a little temporary musical aptitude on Leon's bandmates before the big gig. Complete and utter public humiliation had its place in the tempters armoury, but it really wouldn't help him get his quarry where he wanted him to be in this case.

Feeling rather pleased with himself he kicked off his shoes, lay back on the bed and was promptly hit by an incredibly vivid and wholly unsolicited mental image of Pollution lying next to him: naked, eyes glazed. Lips parted and hips arching.

"Oh for G- Somebody's sake," he muttered, immediately hastening back to his feet. "I need a drink.

----------

"Just five miles to go," said Wensleydale, as they passed yet another road sign.

A tired looking Pepper gave a grunt of relieved acknowledgement, while Brian continued to snooze on the back seat.

It was half past five in the evening and, despite the hours that had been added to their journey, all three of the vehicle's occupants were now certain that the choice to remove themselves from the motorway had been a wise one. Radio Otter was reporting literally dozens of serious accidents on the roads that seemed to have been incited by acts of kamikaze litter picking. 'Green Fever' as the presenters were calling it, didn't seem to just be affecting road users either: stampedes to buy the latest in automotive carbon reducing technology also seemed to be causing mass hospital admissions, while light bulb changing fatalities were a thousand times higher than the usual rate.

"Weird, isn't it?" muttered Pepper, as the presenter went on to describe a particularly gruesome accident involving a discarded crisp packet, an ill fated primary school teacher and a train going at speeds in excess of one hundred miles per hour.

Wensleydale, feeling tired, hungry and decidedly shaken didn't respond. Being of a naturally anxious disposition he tried his level best not to allow himself to become as emotionally invested in current events as Pepper and Brian did. However, there was something about this whole 'Green Fever' epidemic that was, well, completely freaking him out. It wasn't just that he'd had a few near-misses with a few of those apparently afflicted with the 'condition', it was also the fact that it seemed as though something was going around taking over peoples' minds. He was, after all, pretty damned certain that humanity as a whole was not likely to volitionally ditched it's thinly veiled apathy towards the environment so suddenly without a very immediate threat to wealth, comfort or general quality of life. Wensleydale had had a horror of the idea of mind control since about the age of eleven. He wasn't sure quite where it came from, but the thought of somebody or _something_ taking over his head never failed to induce a mental shudder.

"I wonder where we're supposed to meet him," he said, turning the radio down to a level at which it was difficult to discern what was being said.

"Adam, you mean?" said Pepper.

He nodded. "I tried to call him when we stopped at that pub a few hours ago, but his phone was switched off."

"He'll turn up," said Pepper. "He always does."

This, Wensleydale knew, was probably true. Adam did always seem to know where to find them. A fact that he found worrying and comforting in about equal measure.

----------

On leaving the Willow Tree Inn White didn't really know what to do with himself. He also couldn't work out quite why he was experiencing the urge to walk right back in there and ask the demon let him stay a while longer. He therefore began to wander aimlessly around the town, occasionally stopping to watch the humans interact with each other (a move which earned him a lot of glares and a few threats of violence) or gazing at the pretty, useless, glittering, shining things in the shop windows.

The Horseperson did not have a name for the emotion he was feeling, but it was not a pleasant one. In fact, it was almost identical, though not quite as potent, to that which he'd once experienced when he found out that he hadn't been invited to Carmine, Sable, Gelb and Azrael's little reunion in central Africa a few years ago. He wasn't really certain why he should have this reaction to the fact that the demon had wanted him to vacate his bed and hotel room. After all, it wasn't as though he actually _needed_ him for anything. Not that he'd ever actually _needed_ Sable or Carmine either, but that wasn't the point. The point was… well, he wasn't sure what the point was, but he knew that there was something about both situations that made him discontent.

Eventually, he found himself sitting alone town's main plaza, idly defacing the bench on which he resided with a leaky marker pen he'd picked up off the floor and trying to stop himself from wondering what the demon and his fellow Horsepersons was doing right now. In the end he found himself wilfully trying to dwell on something less emotionally loaded, and eventually succeeded in drifting into sedate recollections of Chernobyl.

After an indeterminate amount of time had passed he was shaken from his reverie by the realisation that there was someone, or at least, _something_ standing behind him.

He looked up to see a tall, grey-clad figure looming over the spirit of a deceased and very disgruntled looking pigeon.

YOU'VE ABANDONNED YOUR POST

"Yes," White said, apprehensive but not seized by any urge to explain himself.

THE EFFECTS ARE UNPRESEDENTED

White didn't reply.

THE BOY IS LOOKING FOR YOU

Before White could make any sort of enquiry about this last, rather ominous statement, Azrael faded from awareness, leaving White alone and uneasy.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Big thank you as always to everybody who reviewed the last chapter.

-

On the cruise ship Persephone, which was currently located in waters somewhere between the Philippines and Malaysia and heading in a south westerly direction, it was half past two in the morning. Dressed in a pair of beige trousers and a Hawaiian shirt comprised almost entirely of nauseating yellow, green and orange hues, Gelb stood on the deck, gazing at the sky.

"Amazing, isn't it?" he rasped, gesturing vaguely at the stars and brilliantly bright half moon above.

Ernest, for whom the sky had always been primarily a seasonal detection tool and little more, quacked inquiringly.

"The vastness of Creation, my young friend. Of which we and this Earth are just a minuscule part."

The duck eyed him questioningly and honked.

"Well, yes, I am the personification of disease and putrefaction, which is nothing to be sniffed at – though I do wholeheartedly support sniffling at it. However, I am only so in terms of this small world. I came from the minds of its inhabitants and am bound here, to this small rock, until it ceases to be."

There was another inquiring quack.

Gelb wheezed a chuckle. "Oh, Azrael's different. He's bound to the whole of creation, not just the Earth itself. "Always made of the other two rather uneasy that fact, but I like to think that I made an effort to get to know him."

Ernest informed him that prior to coming into contact with Gelb he hadn't really given much thought to any part of creation beyond where the next grub was coming from and when the next migration to the other pond would be."

"Ah Ernest, we must always take time to look beyond our immediate situation if we are to prosper. After all, we both know what happens if let yourself get so caught up in the here and now that you don't consider the future until it's already upon you."

Ernest gave a loud honk.

"Penicillin! Exactly."

As his companion waddled off in the direction of a small group of seagulls that had just landed near a row of vacated sun beds, in the hope of transferring some of his microbial cargo, Gelb allowed his mind to drift from contemplation of the philosophical to more practical considerations of whether he should he should go with a good old fashioned bout of Legionnaires Disease once the ship was out in the Indian Ocean, or whether that new Salmonella variant he'd been working on might be a goer. There were pros and cons to each, obviously, but what it really came down to was a question of—

Gelb did not get chance to further formalise his thoughts on the matter as at that moment a large ball of fire shot across the deck, vaporising the seagulls, setting ablaze the sun beds and missing his avian accomplice by a matter of centimetres.

"Ernest!" he cried out, as the stunned looking and lightly singed duck raced back over to his side in a state of deepest alarm. "Ernest, are you all right?"

Ernest gave an energetic round of avian invective that would have had mother ducks covering their ducklings' ears.

Once it was clear that the creature was unharmed, Gelb peered in the direction from which the ball of flame had emanated and was wholly unsurprised to see two silhouettes, one short and squat, one tall and thin, lurking at the other end of the deck.

"Well done, Ligur," he heard the taller entity snap. "Maybe next time you can miss by another six miles."

"Well, why don't you do it then," the shorter form grumped. "Like to see you do a fireball like that. Anyway, it's not my fault, that bucket over there was distracting me."

"Oh for the hate of everything holy. The thing hasn't even got any water in it, you angel shagging idiot."

The form now identified as Ligur gave an enraged yell. "What did you just call me?"

The form that had to be Hastur did not immediately answer, clearly realising that he had just overstepped the mark. "Look, you've got to pull yourself together," the demon said in less aggressive tones. "Got to get over this fear of pales what you've got to get over this fear what you've got. It is not befitting of demons what have our rank and stature."

"Easy for you to say. You've never been banished that way," muttered Ligur.

"Come on," said Hastur, finally noting that Gelb was looking straight at them. "No point waiting out here."

As the diabolic duo skulked away, Ernest looked at Gelb with an affronted expression.

Gelb's face hardened before shifting into an expression that could only be described as sly. "I see that they're going to be more of a problem than I first anticipated. But do not fret my feathered compatriot; I have a few ideas as to how to deal with them."

Ernest tilted his head quizzically.

"Oh, you'll see."

----------

It was with a light heart and cheerful countenance that Aziraphale walked into the holiday flat he'd decided to rent for the duration of his stay in Willowholme. It was accommodation of a rather basic nature, but it was clean and comfortable and had a nice view of one of the little woods that were dotted around the outskirts of the town.

As he seated himself in the armchair next to the window, he reflected on his afternoon at the library. He had not had the chance to bring up the subject of London, and why moving there would be a worthwhile and principled thing to do, with Howard; but then something far more important had come up. As he'd feared, the teenage vandals at the library were a bunch of hardened book defilers and thus not at all inclined to respond to the hints of 'bibliographic abuse is wrong' and gentle waves of 'you ought to be ashamed of yourselves' he projected in their direction. However, he had not anticipated that they would have sneered at the stern lecture backed with mild to moderate divine authority, he delivered.

This had left him in rather a mess. A full angelic manifestation, while certain to be effective, was just not something that one could do in public these days: at least not if one ever planned to return to the site. The angel had therefore decided that what was needed was what one might term 'outside help'.

He knew that he shouldn't really have felt the rush of satisfaction that he had when three hundred pounds of enraged ape had emerged from behind the Mills & Boon shelf. But the fact was that sometimes a short, sharp and traumatic shock was what an errant youth needed. Besides, with zoology being so patchily taught in schools these days, it was quite possible that this was the first time any of them had had the difference between 'monkey' and 'orangutan' fully and explicitly demonstrated to them. So the whole thing had probably had some educational value.

Taking the copy of the local paper from the carrier bag containing the provisions he'd picked up on the way back from the library, he settled down and scanned through the first few pages. There was nothing of particular note in there; just the usual mix of small scandals, mundane announcements and banal reactionary commentary that you tended to get in the parochial press. On page nine however, caught his eye; it was a picture of a well groomed man who looked to be in his late thirties next to the headline: **_Peybury To Celebrate Birthday With Charity Auction_**.

The angel read on.

_On the 7th of this month the Hon. Henry Peybury will celebrate his Fortieth birthday in style, with over two hundred guests, including a few top names from the world of music, film and fashion, descending on Peybury Hall for what promises to be a lavish party. However, along with the other entertainments will come a concerted effort to raise money for the Summerstorm Hospice Appeal, as the son of the late Tory MP Sir Horace Peybury auctions off several rare books; including a complete set of Daniel Defoe first editions and a collection of unique fifteenth century demonology texts._

There was more to the short article, a few paragraphs about how the Peybury family had helped to fund the Summerstorm Hospice since its creation in the nineteen thirties. Aziraphale however stopped reading right there and immediately went for the little diary in which he kept a list of his appointments and looked for the day's date.

It was Saturday 7th.

Within a matter of seconds Aziraphale was back out of the door and desperately trying to find someone who could point him in the general direction of Peybury Hall.

----------

Crowley started the evening's drinking binge by systematically consuming the contents of the minibar. Alas, this failed to put so much as a dint in his current state of sobriety and so the demon was forced to leave his room for the overpriced and rather boring hotel bar on the Willow Tree Inn's ground floor, where he found himself a quiet corner, sat down and prepared for a night of getting plastered and forgetting the day's events.

Seven shots of neat vodka later he was still mostly sober and more than a little annoyed about the fact. What was worse was that every time he allowed his thoughts to wander they invariable seemed to start throwing up images of Pollution in various states of undress and debauchment.

It was deeply disturbing. He could admit that he found the entity's physical form attractive, and that his own physical form was more than capable of responding to said physical attraction. However, that still didn't explain or excuse this sudden and quite obvious preoccupation with him; especially given that the Horseperson had been insinuating himself into Crowley's company for less than forty-eight hours.

Part of him wondered if it was because he felt the tiniest bit of empathy for the entity: after all, his own vaguely downwards saunter had been precipitated by an ill advised questioning of his role in the whole divine plan thing. And if he was really honest with himself – and act which usually required him to be in a far greater state of inebriation than he was presently inhabiting – he'd admit that one of the major factors that had led to his fall from grace was boredom with his role as an angel (a role which would, to his mind at least, have been far more enjoyable if he hadn't been for the seraphim breathing down his neck - in an entirely metaphorical sense of course – every five minutes).

_But at least I didn't go around acting like some precious pretentious art school git about it,_ he thought, recalling the entity's hopeless, helpless, 'woe is me for I am not artistically inspired' spiel from the previous evening.

_Yes, but he isn't actually being pretentious,_ another thought butted in, completely unbidden. _He's just being himself._

_But I never went in for all that whining crap about not feeling inspired when they sent me up here. I mean, there's so much up here to see and even more to do._

_Ah, but you're a people demon, he's an artist._

Crowley sighed. He really needed to find some way to get his mind off the subject of Pollution and his existential crisis. Deciding to try and find something else to think about he looked around the bar for conversations to eavesdrop on.

Two tables away a fashionable and affluent looking couple in their early thirties were talking about a party they were about to go to.

"You did hear what happened at his thirty-eighth, don't you?" said the woman.

"Who didn't," said the man. "I still don't believe it though. I mean, I just don't see how any of it could be physically possible."

"They say the footage is on youtube somewhere."

"Yes, but I've never been able to find it. And believe me, I've looked."

"Still, you've got to hope that Henry doesn't let things get _too_ out of hand tonight. He is hosting a charity auction this time, after all."

The man snorted. "You know what Henry's like, invites half the county round, gets them tanked up with the contents of the wine cellar and then gets all surprised when Peybury Hall ends up needing fifty grand's worth of repairs."

The woman gave a small laugh. "Do you think it's time that we were heading over there now?"

The man looked at his watch. "Might as well, there's not much else to do."

As the couple left Crowley knocked back his eighth straight vodka in a row and mentally debated whether to follow them to whatever upmarket house party they were heading off to. On the one hand such soirees were often filled with the terminally dull, on the other they never failed to provide amusement to the gatecrasher with a camera and a penchant for informing people exactly what they did the previous night.

In the end he decided that dull guests or not, getting up, about and tempting was probably the best way to take his mind off Pollution. And so he got up, materialised a camera and set off to find this Peybury Hall place.

----------

_"Hey, are you all right?"_

White wasn't quite sure how long he'd been sitting on the bench since Azrael's unexpected appearance, before the question jolted him out of his reverie, but the fact that the light seemed to have faded from the sepia shades of early evening to the greys and blues of dusk indicated it had been quite a while. Redirecting his gaze from an invisible point in the middle distance to the source of the concerned enquiry, he saw that it was coming from the Cat and Mouse's barmaid, who was staring at him with a worried expression.

This perplexed him slightly: when people usually looked upon him with that particular countenance they tended to be in the early stages of realising that, yes, they had indeed just accidentally pushed the 'Do Not Press' button. This human however did not currently appear to be involved in any kind of large scale industrial accident.

A few feat behind her stood the thin woman from the library, hand on hip and eyes rolling. "Oh for God's sake, Gail, leave him alone. If he wants to sit there all night vandalising public property it's none of our business."

"Sorry," the barmaid said apologetically, seeming to take the stare he gave her as reproof, "it's just that you were looking so lost and…."

"Stoned, more like it," muttered her friend.

"I…I just wanted to ask if you were okay."

The woman then glanced from White to the floor and back again, feet shifting on the ground in a decidedly fidgety way.

"No," said White, after a few seconds had passed. "I don't think I am."

She blinked, an expression of surprise immediately settling on her face. "You're not?"

He shook his head.

"What's wrong?" the barmaid asked, sitting down next to him on the un-defaced side of the bench as the friend gave an exasperated sigh.

White was pretty certain that telling the woman that his current state of not okayness was the result of a combination of factors including his recent loss of interest in his role as the personification of Pollution, his total lack of purpose, the odd feelings he was having with regard Sable and the demon Crowley, his dissatisfaction about the latter sending him away and his severe unease about the fact that the antithesis of creation had just told him that the Antichrist was looking for him, would probably not be the wisest of ideas.

In the end he settled on the two things that were currently most salient. "My former employer's looking for me and Crowley wanted me to go away."

"Who's Crowley?" the barmaid asked. "You don't mean the—"

"The lawyer bloke," cut in her friend, before she could finish the question. "You know, the one who's got our little Leon all excited about his 'connections in the music industry'." Had White been a little more adept at reading humans in a non-environmentally catastrophic context, he would have picked up the cynical suggestiveness dripping from this statement.

"But you carried him home last night," said the barmaid, a note of disbelief in her voice.

"He sent me away this afternoon after he came back to the hotel room and saw that I was still in his bed."

The barmaid gaped. "That's horrible."

"What a complete arsehole," said the woman from the library, demeanour immediately switching from irritated and flippant to sympathetically disgusted.

White gave a sigh, part of him feeling inexplicably pleased that the humans seemed to find something not right about his situation. "I don't know what I was expecting him to do."

"Not that, I should hope," said the barmaid.

"Besides, he's only a demon."

The woman from the library snorted. "That's the spirit. Plenty more blood sucking bastards the sea. Though, personally, if _I_ was looking for a new sugar daddy, I'd pass on the lawyers… and the ad men, of course."

"Sugar… daddy?" queried White, certain that he did not have a father in the usual human sense and rather perplexed as to how one would acquire a male parent constructed entirely out of refined carbohydrates.

She fixed him with a knowing look, which he completely failed to identify as such. "Look… what's your name?"

"White," he said, giving the name he'd been using at the time of his last endeavour to create mass environmental destruction.

"Look White, you're a wandering artist who sometimes sleeps in ditches and he's giving you Armani to wear. If that doesn't scream 'kept boy', I don't know what does. Not that there's anything wrong with that… well, apart from the fact that he's a wanker."

"I don't understand."

"Never mind," she said waving a dismissive hand. "The main thing is that he's clearly a prick and…." She suddenly trailed off, her eye suddenly caught by the scrawling he'd made on the park bench. "Bloody hell, when he said you were an artist I didn't realise that you were the sort that could actually draw. Gail, you've got see this."

"See what?" said Gail the barmaid, leaning over White to get a glimpse of what her friend was gesturing at, before her eyes widened and she burst out giggling.

Her friend grinned. "Honestly, you'd think she'd never seen one before."

"Oh, shut up, Jenny," said Gail. "It's a really good picture. I mean, his expression, it's so… so…."

"Snake-like?" the other woman supplied.

"I was going to say so much realer than real."

The woman from the library, who was now identified as Jenny, seemed to consider this for a while. "You know, I'd usually say something about how it's a logical impossibility for anything to be realer than real, but this time I can… actually see what you mean."

Gail nodded enthusiastically and looked at White. "It's like you've captured something about him and just… just put it there."

Not quite certain why the pair seemed to be so excited about his casual and half-hearted act of vandalism, he looked at his scrawling. It was a slightly stylised depiction of the demon; supine, relaxed and undeniably naked. Nothing particularly remarkable, but he couldn't help but feel a tiny twinge of joy at the admiration his little creation seemed to be getting.

"Hey, Jenny, why don't we take him to the party with us? Henry said you could bring as many people as you liked and I bet he could get a few commissions."

"I don't mind." Jenny shrugged, before a thought seemed to hit her and the sides of her mouth curved upwards. "Don't think that Henry would mind either."

"Party?" White queried.

"Her posh brother in law's just turned forty and he's having a huge party," said Gail. "Of course, Jenny can't go with her husband, because he's in prison—"

"In Peru," interjected Jenny.

"…so Henry said that she could bring some friends."

"So there'd be lots of people to watch there?" said White, interest piqued.

Jenny nodded. "Loads of them: and you'd be amazed to see what they get up with a few drinks and lines of coke in them… Well, perhaps _you_ wouldn't, art school graduate and all that; but let's just say that when I lived in London I spent four years doing web maintenance on a whole bunch of dodgy porn sites and I still couldn't believe what I saw at Henry's thirty-eighth."

"It sounds… interesting."

"Oh, it will be," enthused Gail. "There might be some lovely men there too."

"Wouldn't bank on it," said Jenny. "But you might be able to find a reasonably attractive bastard who doesn't tell you to sod off in the morning. Anyway, do you want to tag along or not, because I promised I'd be there by half past to help set up the bloody auction."

White wasn't quite certain why lovely men and attractive bastards were at all relevant, though the humans clearly seemed to think that they were, but he was also palpably aware that he didn't really have anything else to do apart from sitting on the bench and undergo sporadic bouts of unease about the fact that Adam Young was out to find him.

"I think," he said after a short pause, "I'd like to go."

----------

Pepper took a look around the tiny, dilapidated holiday bungalow and gave a shrug.

"It's not too bad," she said.

"Not too bad!" Wensleydale gaped. "Have you seen the walls?"

"Well, okay, there's a bit of a draft and a lot of rising damp, but it's the middle of summer and we're only here for a short holiday."

"But—"

"Besides, it was about the only place we could afford to rent at short notice."

This, she knew, Wensley had to acknowledge to be true. After arriving at their destination and realising that Adam wasn't already their waiting for them, they had set about trying to find suitable lodgings for the week Alas, the area really wasn't geared towards those on a student budget and this little decrepit little one bedroom, single story building had been the best they could find for their extremely limited resourced.

"The television looks unsafe too," said Wensleydale, changing the focus of his denouncement.

"I've just tried it and it doesn't actually work, so that's okay," said Brian, who was now sprawled on the hideous and battered orange sofa bed that dominated the tiny living room and looking perfectly at home; a fact that should not have really come as much surprise to anybody who'd ever seen the inside of Brian's bedroom.

"Wensley, just stop complaining and try and relax," said Pepper.

"Yeah," assented Brian. "You should get some sleep."

"Where?"

"You can share the sofa bed with Brian," said Pepper.

"What?"

"Look, there are twin beds in the bedroom and one sofa bed, which means that at least two of us have to share."

"And it can't be me and Pepper, because she's a girl," added Brian. "Or me and Adam, because that would be just too weird."

Wensleydale was about to enquire why Brian sharing a bed with Adam would be _too weird_, while Brian sharing a bed with him wouldn't, when the bungalow's front door creaked open and somebody stepped inside.

"Who's—?"

Before Wensleydale could finish the question an excited Dog bounded into the room, followed two seconds later by a thoughtful looking Adam.

"Hi guys," he said.

"How the hell did you find us?" asked Pepper.

Adam shrugged. "I just asked around a bit."

"Well, I'm glad you're here now," said Wensleydale. "You wouldn't believe what happened on our way down here."

"Oh, I think I probably could," said Adam.

Wensleydale yawned.

"Go to bed Wensley," said Brian. "The rest of us will try and keep the noise down."

"He can't to bed yet," said Adam. "We're going to a party."

Wensleydale gaped.

"What kind of party?" asked Pepper.

"One that might get out of hand if I'm not there."

The words were said with such finality that none of the Them thought to question him.

----------

As Adam was leading his friends out of their leaky holiday bungalow, a black, stylish, hideously expensive and, above all else, _streamlined_ limousine was zipping through the Devonshire countryside.

In the back seat one Dr. Raven Sable was looking out of the window, a preoccupied expression on his face. The last couple of days had been deeply unsettling for the personification of Famine.

While Thursday's night on the town with Carmine had been rather delightful, the outbreak of 'Green Fever' - as the press were calling it - that seemed to currently be sweeping the world, was making him very uneasy. As Azrael had said, the whole thing was unprecedented and there was no way of knowing what would happen if Pollution continued to shirk his duties.

Somebody needed to take him aside and give him a serious pep talk and re-affirmment of the company mission statement; and, well, Sable was really the only one who could do it. Truth be told, he felt a little responsible for his fellow Horsepersons present antics (or rather lack of them). If he'd have kept a closer watch on the new boy he might have been able to keep him from this… this questioning of purpose that he'd quite obviously been doing.

The sides of Sable's thin lips quirked upwards. It really was quite fortunate that the party he was attending tonight – a celebration of the birthday of one of the three directors of Voltage Advertising, which he was corporately bound to attend - was in the area where the errant personification was currently residing.

----------

Had Sable been the least bit inclined to take in such things, he might have noticed that one of the cars that the limousine zipped passed just outside Exeter was ancient looking Wasabi containing four passengers. Had he looked very closely, he would have seen that the elderly man sitting on the back left passenger seat was in a state of some discontent.

"Thieving swines," Shadwell shouted out, waving a fist, as he looked once again at the newspaper clipping.

"Calm down, you silly thing," said Madam Tracy, who was sitting to his right. "You know what Doctor Partridge said about your blood pressure."

Shadwell seethed. "Calm down? CALM DOWN? I find out that some southern nancy boy's flogging Witchfinder Army property at some auction and you're telling me to calm down? Put your foot down laddie, we need to get their before the wee bastard sells our heritage down the river."

In the driver's seat Newt glanced apologetically at Anathema. "I really didn't know he'd pick this week to come out of retirement."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: It's taken me quite a while to get this chapter finished owing to RL issues, so I apologise for any disjointedness that resulted from writing the latter half a few weeks after the first bit. Several characters from fandoms other than GO get namechecked or make brief appearances in the ill-fated house party taking place in this instalment (though none are of course central to the story), so I'd be interested to see how many people can spot. The original version of this chapter contained a bit of smut that has been cut here to keep things PG-13, but the unedited version can, as always, be found in my LJ memories (see my profile for the URL).

-

To White's supreme indifference Peybury Hall turned out to be an enormous eighteenth century mansion, which was located about two miles from the outskirts of Willowholme and set in expansive and well manicured grounds. He did however find himself momentarily entranced by the colourful paper lanterns that lined the sides of the long and winding driveway, as Jenny's dark blue rover approached the building.

"Pretty, aren't they?" said Gail, who was sitting just behind him in the back passenger seat and had obviously taken note of his brief enthrallment.

"Not the best idea in this climate," said Jenny. "One splatter of rain and those things are going to disintegrate."

Gail tutted. "Why've you got to be so… so practical all the time?"

Jenny shrugged as she pulled the car into what seemed to be a reserved parking spot just outside the building. "Same reason you've got to be such a bloody romantic, I suppose."

"At least these ones look a bit safer than the fairy lights Henry had the handyman put up two years ago," said Gail, clearly deciding that this was not a point against which she could argue. "You remember those don't you?"

"How could I forget? He managed to accidentally electrify twenty acres of waterlogged country estate."

"He's a nice bloke though. Henry, that is," said Gail. White couldn't quite tell whether she was addressing him or her friend.

"Yeah, he's okay. Better than my useless, good for nothing, failed criminal of a hus—" Jenny cut off suddenly, mouth curling with distaste. "Urgh, I don't believe it, that's disgusting."

"What is?"

"Somebody's stuck a big glob of chewing gun under the sodding dashboard. I swear to God, this is the last time I lend the car to Ingrid. I mean… Oh, for Christ's sake there are sweet wrappers all over the floor as well. How did I miss them earlier?"

As Jenny went about removing the offending debris, Gail tapped White on the shoulder and gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry about this, she's a bit fussy about cleanliness."

White gave a non-committal shrug. He may have lost the urge to turn the surface of the planet into one big, rotting, fermenting landfill, but the Rover had had a deeply unpleasant air of sterility about it, and introducing a few bits of litter to its interior had been the only way he could bear to sit in there without visibly recoiling. He had however found the banter between the two women to be engaging enough to take his mind off a) the peculiar mixture of hurt and excitement he seemed to be experiencing every time his thoughts drifted to the demon; and b) the fact that a visitation from Adam Young seemed imminent; though he found himself perplexed by the strange, unspoken undercurrents that seemed to run through human conversation.

After a few minutes of grumbling over how the car was going to need another professional valetting, the mess was tidied up to Jenny's satisfaction (with, of course, the exception of the empty crisp packets, rotten apple cores and discarded cola cans that were now residing in the boot) and the three got out of the car and headed passed the two disgruntled looking security guards who were posted at the door, into a black and white tiled antechamber that was cluttered with antiques, gaudy party decorations and a large banner reading 'Forty Today'.

There were a few people milling around the entrance hall, but none of them were interacting or doing anything particularly interesting, so White continued to follow Gail and Jenny as they headed towards the mild din that was coming from the direction of one of the doors on the far side of the entrance hall.

"The birthday boy'll be in here," said Jenny, as she pushed open the door to reveal a large room filled with a diverse, but incredibly wealthy-looking, selection of people, most of whom were sipping on glasses of champagne that were being proffered around by three smartly dressed waiters.

Coming to a halt Jenny peered around until she spotted a tall man with light brown hair and an amicable demeanour, conversing with a taller and far more dangerous looking man with dark hair and glasses.

"That's Henry," said Gail, gesturing to the shorter of the two men, who in turn spotted the two women and began to eagerly beckon them over.

"And it looks like his taste in acquaintances is as bad as ever," said Jenny, with a grin before walking up to her brother-in-law and allowing herself to be enthusiastically hugged and kissed on the cheek.

"Hello Jennifer," he said, obviously happy to see the woman. "I was starting to worry that you weren't going to make it, but I see you've brought the lovely Abigail and another frien..." the man trailed off as his eyes settled on White and promptly widened, "...Jennifer, who _is_ your new friend?"

"This is White," she said, grin morphing into what could only be described as a 'knowing' smile. "He's an artist."

The man's eyes widened further. "An artist?"

She nodded. "He's actually really good."

Positively beaming the man extended his hand to White, who – feeling rather puzzled as to why the man should seem so obviously delighted to meet him – shook it. "I'm Henry Peybury," he said. "Very pleased to meet you, er… White, did you say?"

White nodded. "That's what I've been calling myself for the last few years."

"You changed your name?"

He gave a shrug, uncertain as to why the man should seem so intrigued by this point. "I've been Blanc, Weiss, Albus, Bianco and Chalky."

"Well, I suppose that you artistic types tend to be changeable," he said. "I know that Marcus was." A sad, faraway look settled on his face for a moment, before his expression snapped back to one of light-hearted joviality. "What kind of art is it that you do?"

Aware that telling the man that until recently his sole means of creative expression had been the creation of ecological catastrophe wouldn't go down too well, he decided that vagueness was the best idea. "I choose the medium best suited to what I want to create."

Jenny rolled her eyes. "He's very good at drawing."

"How splendid," said Henry. "I was just telling Mr. Crawford here about the restoration work I've been having done on father's old collection of William Blakes. You girls already know Mr. Crawford, don't you?"

"Yeah, we met at your thirty-eighth." She gave the man a nod of acknowledgement. "You're Goil's security manager these days, aren't you?"

"For the moment," the man said in an American accent, his tone suggesting that he saw protecting the lives of the world second most infamous heavy metal outfit was something he saw as a transient position.

"You've not brought your…er, friends with you this time, have you Mr. Crawford?" said Gail, a pleading note to her voice.

Mr. Crawford, who seemed possessed of a self-assuredness that almost matched Sable's (and an air of self-satisfaction that only a fully-fledged human could achieve), gave an amused snort. "They're currently protecting Mr. Goyle from his legions of fans. Though I would point out that the… 'unfortunate events' of our last visit were partly your responsibility."

Gail looked at the floor. White recognised the look on her face as being remarkably akin to the ones that the lab technicians he'd worked with over the years wore when asked to explain where they had been when eight tonnes of chemical effluent had been released into the nearest river.

"Look, fair's fair," said Jenny, immediately leaping to her friend's defence. "When people go down into the cellar to find a screaming man hanging upside down in a straightjacket while William Shatner's Greatest Hits plays in the background they tend to think 'BDSM game gone horribly awry' not 'Complete fucking loon being restrained for the safety of himself and others'. And none of us could have known what would happen with the mind reading act... Though admittedly that bit was pretty hilarious. I mean, I knew anybody as uptight and moral majority as Councillor Fletcher had to have some kind of really weird fetish going on, but I never would have guessed that it involved Clingfilm and electric eels."

"Well, it's all in the past now," said Henry firmly, in tones reminiscent of those used by lab supervisors after deciding that the best course of action in response to the 'eight tonnes of accidentally discharged chemical effluent' situation was to endeavour to never speak of it again.

"Agreed," said Mr. Crawford, with the finality of the Head of Section issuing a blanket ban of any mention of the 'eight ton chemical effluent spillage that most certainly didn't happen and we've got a lawsuit waiting for anybody who says it did'. "Now if you'll excuse me I need to make a phone call."

"Henry," said Jenny once the man was out of earshot, "I know that this is none of my business, but what the hell is he doing here? I though you said you were going to introduce a 'one non-accidental death and you're not getting another invite' policy"

"I couldn't really not invite him: Voltage is trying to get Goil on board for the new Zablotsky Vodka campaign, so it wouldn't do to go around snubbing anybody connected with them. Of course, we would have preferred Dethklok but one of our top executives once punched Charles Ofdensen in the face at business school." He sighed. "Besides, Crawford said he had an interest in bidding for the demonology manuscripts."

"Demonology manuscripts?" queried White, wondering for a moment if the demon Crawly was mentioned anywhere within.

Henry nodded. "My half brother acquired them somewhere in London, just before he left for Peru and then put them in the library here for safekeeping. But he's going to be in South America for several more years and I… well, let's just say that strange things have been happening ever since they've been here…. Oh Jennifer, don't look at me like that."

White glanced at her quizzically.

"He thinks they're cursed," she said, answering the question he hadn't quite worked out that he was about to ask.

"No, not cursed exactly, but… let's just say that I'll be glad to have them out of the building."

"When exactly are you thinking of having the auction anyway?" said Gail, redirecting the subject.

He looked at his watch. "In about an hour."

"Is the sound system set up in the library?" asked Jenny.

"I think so. Garrett told me he sorted it out earlier today."

"Garrett! The one that can't tell the difference between a spark plug and a screwdriver?" She shook her head. "I better go and make sure everything's all right."

"I'll go with you," said Gail. "Do you want to come along, White?"

He thought about this. On the one hand there was so much human activity going on in here, so many of the party guests playing out their intriguing little dramas, on the other hand, it was possible that something even more interesting might be going on in the library. In the end however the choice was more or less made for him when Henry opened his mouth.

"I'm sure that White's not interested in watching you two girls fiddle about with microphones and bits of wiring."

White's brow furrowed. "I'm not?"

"Well, you can go with them if you'd rather," said the man looking puzzlingly pained by the thought. "But I'd love to show you some of the pieces from father's collection."

Jenny opened her mouth as if to pass comment, but promptly shut it when Gail tugged roughly at her arm.

"Come on, Jen, let's leave them to it," she said, before going up to Henry and whispering something in his ear that featured the phrases 'be gentle', 'poor thing' and 'nasty, unfeeling lawyer'.

Then, as the two women made their exit Henry looked at him with another of those human expressions that were completely unfathomable to him, while White idly scanned the little interactions going on around the place.

Neither of them paid much heed to the sound of a car braking suddenly outside.

----------

As the Bentley screeched to a halt outside Peybury Hall - it's seemingly haphazard positioning actually carefully calculated to cause the maximum amount of inconvenience to other drivers - Crowley was already starting to feel a little more upbeat. Had he known that the personification of Pollution was in the building and being chatted up by a besotted-at-first-sight company director, he would have doubtless have found himself torn between leaving the premises immediately and dashing in to locate the Horseperson (whereupon he would have inevitably made a spectacular idiot of himself owing to the fact that he wouldn't have considered what to actually say when he found him). However, as he was happily oblivious to this fact, what he did was get out of his car, walk into the large country house and set about stalking the rather too rococo corridors for a few casual temptations: an endeavour that proved to be laughably easy.

It took just the tiniest knowing glance and suggestive hint to induce the young man with the unruly brown hair and the scar to drag the pale, blonde young man with the haughty expression into a conveniently situated second floor broom cupboard, despite the fact that both of them were a) recently married and b) thoroughly aware that they'd hate themselves in the morning.

The flustered Miss Jones, who had clearly got herself lost in the east wing, was delighted to receive an autographed copy of Crowley's latest foray into the world of self-help paperbacks.

A quick and sympathetic conversation on one of the first floor balconies with the harassed looking Father Crilly was all that was required to convince the man that embezzlement was a deeply unpleasant word and not one that should, in a just world, be given to the simple and mostly harmless practice of allowing money that others wouldn't miss to temporarily rest in ones own bank account.

An even shorter conversation, in the billiards room, was needed to chase away the mild pangs of guilt Messers Iqbal and Bibby had been having about the mercenary way they were using the South London comprehensive school, with which they had, for some unfathomable reason, been charged with running.

Of course, as far as the demonic appetite for sin incitement was concerned, such petty influences were the temptational equivalent of breadsticks: filling if you were hungry, but ultimately rather boring. However, it was a bit too early in the evening for trying to initiate a mass orgy in the arboretum. Inciting such things too soon tended to either lead to a) everybody going home five hours early with embarrassed and rather too sober expressions on their faces; or b) some bright spark deciding that the only way the night's decadence could be built upon was by holding some kind of ill-advised occult ritual in the wine cellar (and the last thing Crowley needed was for some irritating acquaintance from the Third Circle to show up). He therefore casually walked around, critically eyeing the ostentatious but - in Crowley's opinion at least - thoroughly unstylish décor, until he came to a French window on the ground floor that led out onto a terrace, on which a small crowd had gathered to watch a string quartet play chamber music.

Deciding that the musicians were passable (if only just), he stood around half-heartedly listening to them play, while the people around him chattered and gossiped. Alas, with his mind not focussed on temptation and allowed to idly drift, it idly drifted back to thoughts of a pale, lithe body writhing on sticky bed sheets and grey, usually spaced-out eyes flashing with hurt as said form dressed, before walking away with a lost expression.

The demon gave a frustrated sigh. That disgustingly intriguing little bastard of an apocalyptic personification had really got under his skin. It wasn't even as if the entity had seemed _all that_ upset about the whole thing. Just a bit rejected and put out that Crowley wasn't playing his game. And as for the lost part… well, he'd quite obviously been lost ever since he'd decided that environmental decimation didn't really do it for him anymore.

Crowley might have continued trying to play this game of 'attempting to convince oneself that one shouldn't care about things that one – against one's better judgement – clearly does' indefinitely, if a familiar form hadn't suddenly appeared beside him.

"Aziraphale!"

----------

"You're not impressed?" said Henry, face falling as White examined the eighteenth century watercolour hanging on the wall of his study in a critical and utterly unenthused manner.

"It's too flat," said White, shaking his head at what he felt to be an extremely dull, two-dimensional representation of a storm in a harbour.

Henry sighed in a distinctly despairing fashion. "You said that about the portraits too."

White gave a shrug. He hadn't been able to fully express to the man that the works of supposed art that he'd shown him were, in truth, mere echoes of what they should be. As if the artists had merely managed to produce a pale imitation of the ideas they had in their heads.

"I could do better," he said eventually. "Let me show you."

It was testament to Henry Peybury's instant irrational infatuation with his sister in law's new acquaintance that he did not complain when the young man took a black marker from the stationery box on the Seventeenth century oak desk, walked out into the hallway and began to casually draw on the vintage three-hundred-pounds-a-metre wallpaper.

----------

"Crowley, what on earth are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"There are a couple of antique book collections being auctioned off," said the angel, looking slightly embarrassed by the fact that his demonic counterpart had encountered him during one of his more covetous and less divinely motivated moments. "The proceeds do go to charity, of course," he added.

"Of course." Crowley smirked.

"So what are _you_ doing here, Crowley?" the angel asked, clearly eager to change the subject.

"Oh, just thought I'd get out and do a bit of light tempting," said Crowley. "Fill this week's quota, so to speak." He wasn't the least inclined to give his angelic frien— acquaintance the full story. For one thing he knew the angel wouldn't hesitate to bring it up at every opportunity. Crowley had, after all, been horrifically insufferable about the whole Champagne Fair debacle for centuries.

"Really, my dear," chided Aziraphale, without any real rancour, before giving a sigh. "You do realise that I'm now morally obligated to try and drum up a few good deeds."

"Sorry about that," said Crowley. "Didn't know you'd be here, otherwise I'd have left well alone."

"These situations do happen, I suppose." The angel frowned as the musicians tackled a tricky minuet in a rather sub-standard fashion.

"How did you meeting with Mr. Goode go?" the demon asked.

"Oh, so-so," said Aziraphale. "The poor chap's terribly naïve. He really doesn't deserve any of this."

Crowley nodded glumly. "Did you mention London to him?"

A look of guilt cross the angel's face. "I'm afraid that something came up before I had the chance."

"What kind of thing?"

"A group of teenagers defiling a defenceless book."

"Ah."

Aziraphale shook his head sadly. "That library really is in a dreadful state."

Crowley shrugged. "Well, it is just a half-arsed parochial effort, isn't it?"

The angel's expression hardened. "That's no excuse, Crowley. Besides, the computers seemed to be perfectly well kept."

"I think that has something to do with the fact that the Head of Computer Services seems to spend half her time trying to keep the public away from them."

Aziraphale gave a low 'hmmm', clearly of the mind that those in charge of books should implement a similar strategy.

As the string quartet came to the end of the piece, Crowley noticed that a large portion of the guests seemed to be gradually drifting back inside.

Also obviously noticing this movement, Aziraphale glanced at his pocket watch. "Ah, I do believe that the auction's going to begin in ten minutes. I really must be heading off to Mr. Peybury's library – which I dearly hope is in better condition than the one in town. Are you going to tag along?"

Crowley shook his head. "I wasn't planning on bidding; and watching auctions just isn't really my thing." This wasn't strictly true. Crowley occasionally enjoyed going to an auction and seeing how far greed could be pushed (though usually he didn't actually have to do very much), but this really wasn't the sort of thing that one could comfortably do while accompanying a divine acquaintance.

The angel looked faintly disappointed, but only faintly. "Then I believe I'll see you tomorrow, if not before. We agreed to meet in the water gardens didn't we?"

The demon nodded. "Unless you'd prefer somewhere else."

"No the water gardens will be fine." With a wave the angel then walked back into the building, leaving Crowley standing on the terrace with the string quartet, a gaggle of girls in their late teens, a dreamy young couple and a very oddly dressed man who was accompanied by a white nanny goat with a pink bow around her neck.

"Aberforth," he said, giving the man a polite nod.

"Anthony," said the man, responding in kind.

Deciding that the musicians really were a bit below par and that there was now really nothing interesting to see or do around the terrace, the demon headed back inside.

----------

By the time White finished the drawing a crowd of curious and in some cases downright admiring party-goers had gathered around him. All of them were babbling excitedly about the work that had just been created in front of their eyes.

"Good Lord," said Henry. "It's amazing. It's as if… as if you took what makes him _him_ and just put it there, on the wall."

"Do you know him?" queried White, not quite certain why his little drawing should have created such a buzz, but faintly pleased about it nonetheless.

Henry nodded. "We're promoting his new diet book… Well, I hope we still are, at any rate. Thursday's launch party was a bit of a disaster, to tell the truth."

White took a step back from his little scrawling and regarded the picture of Sable he'd just drawn. For a few seconds a feeling that an entity with better all-round emotional awareness would have probably labelled 'bittersweet' overtook him.

"Were you and he…?" Henry trailed off, clearly expecting White to understand the question that he wasn't asking.

"We used to work together," said White. "I got bored of the enterprise though."

"You creative types do seem to need variety."

He nodded. "Sometimes things just cease to be entertaining or aesthetically pleasing and then you lose interest."

"True, very true. Although there are occasions when one is forced do the dull, boring and horribly unpleasant by duty or necessity, I suppose."

White considered this for a moment. "No, I don't think so. Not in my case." As he said the words however a small but rather worrying seed of doubt began to grow in his mind. He was pretty certain that Azrael couldn't do anything to make him resume his purpose; if he could, White was almost certain that the antithesis to creation would have exercised this power by now. The boy on the other hand…. Well, he didn't know how far _his_ powers extended.

Forcefully pushing this unpleasant thought from his mind he tried to refocus his attention on Henry who was giving a small and slightly guilty laugh.

"Sometimes I wish that I could say the same," the man said. "I mean it's not that I don't love my brother, but there are moments when sorting out these little scrapes that he gets into can get a bit…." He trailed off as a man with blond hair cropped short and a flashy suit caught his eye. "Ah, I see Lawrence Melling's turned up. If you'll just excuse me a moment I think I might prevail upon him to give me a little something to get me through the night."

As he glanced more closely at the aforementioned Lawrence Melling White noticed that the man appeared to be engaged in the process of handing out tiny plastic envelopes filled with pills and powder. It was amazing the way that humans would decry the presence of a little washing detergent in the local river, but seemed to be so enthusiastic to put things a hundred times more potently dangerous into their bodies. Of course, Mr. Melling's products were of such a watered-down and unrefined quality that White couldn't help but feel the tiniest tinge of professional reproach.

Deciding that he could do infinitely better, he tapped Henry on the shoulder.

"Lick my fingers," he said, proffering his left land.

For a moment the man's eyes looked as though they were about to burst out of their sockets. He then surveyed the partygoers surrounding them before looking once again at White. There was no chance that White could have picked up the thoughts passing through the man's head at this point; but an extremely skilled decipherer of human behaviour would have recognised the 'How drunk are they? How drunk am I? And is there enough overall drunkenness in the immediate vicinity to allow for a public act of homoerotic hand tasting?' calculation taking place. In the end the Henry clearly decided that the answer was in the positive and brought White's palm to his mouth, which he began to hesitantly lick: tongue delicately running its way over his index finger.

Much to White's surprise the feeling of a warm, wet tongue sliding against his skin caused a jolt of excitement to spread through his lower belly.

As the man went from tentative tasting to sucking lustily on his fingers, which were coated with a very fine layer of ultra-pure amphetamine, White involuntarily found himself closing his eyes and picturing another darker-haired and sharper featured male shaped being in the man's place. So strange the way that the mind locked in this humanised form could represent events as being other than they were. So peculiar that said human form….

"What the _Bloody He— Manchester_ do you think you're doing?"

White's eyes snapped open and he found himself looking into the face of a thoroughly pissed off demon.

"Hello," he said, stomach lurching in a mystifying and very uncomfortable fashion, while a peculiar flush spread about his face. "Henry was just licking my finger."

The demon's scowl intensified. "I could dam— sodding well see that. What I want to know is why."

"I don't see why that's any of your business," said Henry, eyes narrowing and heartbeat rising.

Not quite sure what he was feeling but aware that he really didn't like it, White looked down at the floor.

----------

Heart aflutter, Aziraphale seated himself four rows back from the makeshift podium that had been set up in the centre of Peybury Hall's enviably large – if rather shoddily cared for – library and watched the other attendees filter into the room. There were, he noted with disapproval, several distinctly unsavoury characters amongst the bunch: con men, ad men, career criminals, Yakuza bosses, Armani anarchists, horrifically unethical physicians and, perhaps most insidious of all, the entrepreneur behind the nation's largest premium rate psychic hotline. Definitely not, in Aziraphale's very firm opinion, the sort who ought to be allowed to get their hands anywhere near the noble old tomes being cast onto the perilous waves of charity auctioneering that evening.

----------

_"I don't see why that's any of your business."_

Even as he glared at the man Crowley had to concede that this was true. If the Horseperson wanted to go around licking the fingers of random over-moneyed twits then than was clearly own prerogative. But the fact was that ambling down a random hallway in the search for a quick distraction and coming across the scene had really felt like a stupid and irrational punch to the gut.

He'd made it clear through his actions earlier that day that he found the thought of Pollution having any sort of sexual interest in him to be… well, a bit weird, freaky and uncomfortable. But the sight of him standing there, in front of that bizarre and horribly real picture of Famine, head lolling back in what appeared to be a state of near-ecstasy, while a man who was quite obviously far less attractive, urbane, stylish and cool than Crowley considered himself to be sucked suggestively on his fingers, really got to him. As an accomplished tempter he knew that vanity, envy and lust were known to engage in a frequent and enthusiastic ménage-a-trois, which could beget a whole host of distinctly human stupidity. However, the fact was that Crowley was a tempter who was occasionally prone to temptation and he couldn't help but feel that his demonic pride had just been wounded.

"You're the lawyer, aren't you?" said the licker of Horsepersonly fingers, voice filled with disapproval and annoyance.

"Yeah, what about it?"

The man, fuelled by anger and dexedrine drew himself up. "My sister-in-laws friend told me about you and I think that—"

"Look, don't you have anywhere else to be," snapped Crowley, cutting him off.

Obviously not quite certain how to best respond, the man flailed for a few seconds before finally gathering his wits, standing up straight and then looking from Pollution to Crowley and then back again. "Do _you_ want me to leave you two alone?" he said to Pollution.

Pollution seemed to consider this for a good few moments.

"Yes," he said eventually. "I think I do."

Looking absolutely crestfallen the man gave a nod, turned around and began to pad dejectedly down the hallway.

Crowley regarded Pollution with a disbelieving expression. "Why the hell were you doing that?" he asked, tone softening a little.

Pollution shrugged. "He wanted to get high and the drug dealer was incompetent."

Deeply perplexed by this statement, Crowley decided to try a different tact. "You looked like you were enjoying it."

After giving another shrug, he quirked his head and regarded Crowley. "I was thinking about you."

Crowley wasn't sure whether it was the words themselves of the low breathy pitch with which they were spoken, but as Pollution finished speaking the demon felt his blood rush downwards.

"You want me to lick your fingers?" he said, ignoring looks and the giggles that the other partygoers who were still loitering in the area sent in his direction.

Pollution nodded. "I want you to lick me all over."

Crowley swallowed. For some reason the blunt casualness of the statement was far more erotic than any sultry suggestiveness could have been. He therefore found himself quite reluctant to do anything other that press his lips against Pollution's and proceed to enthusiastically devour that pretty, poisonous mouth.

Later, Crowley would look back at what happened next and wonder why in the name of G— Sat— David Bowie he didn't think to make a brief enquiry as to what that disconcerting picture of the personification of starvation was doing on the wall; however, as things transpired this did not occur and the demon found himself – in the grand tradition of house parties everywhere – leading Pollution into the nearest bedroom.

----------

By the time the seemingly elusive Henry Peybury made it to the library, the start of the auction had already been delayed by fifteen minutes and Aziraphale was starting to get slightly jittery. He was fully aware that at least four of the informal auction's attendees were contemplating making a grab for the demonology texts (which they – quite misguidedly – though contained some kind of accurate 'How To' guide to the invocation of occult beings) and was starting to fret about how he could balance angelic duty with less than angelic bibliophilic obsession should such a book grabbing incident arise.

Alas, on making his way to the podium, the thoroughly downcast and distinctly twitchy looking birthday celebratee walked over to the small, malnourished looking woman with the ginger hair who seemed to have been in charge of setting up the microphone and whispered urgently in her ear.

"For Christ's sake, Henry, I though you of all people would know better than to accept amphetamines from an art school graduate," the woman responded in tones hushed enough that they were sub-audible to the human ear from a distance of a metre. Fortunately for Aziraphale's eaves-dropping tendencies, his sense of hearing was rather more sophisticated than that possessed by the average mortal being. "You know that class A drugs don't have the same effect on them as the rest of us."

"He offered and it just didn't seem polite to refuse," the man replied in equally hushed tones, clearly somewhat distressed by his current physical and mental state. "And he really did have the loveliest fingers I've ever seen on a man. I mean, he's beautiful, utterly beautiful and so talented and…." The man's face fell, "… and now he's upstairs with that bastard lawyer Abigail told me about."

The woman sighed. "Look, are you sure you're fit to do the auction? I mean, I could—"

"Oh, not you, Jennifer. You might start addressing the bidders as 'you bunch of useless twats'."

The woman looked affronted. "What makes you think I'd do that?"

"I've heard stories about those IT training courses you run at the library."

"That's different. It's not as if any of this lot are going to be putting their grubby, malware-downloading mitts on my computers. Besides, I wasn't going to suggest that I do it. I was going to say that I could ask that bloke from Sotheby's to do the honours instead. He did volunteer, after all."

"Yes, but he is a bit… What's the word…?"

"Dodgy?" She waved a dismissive hand. "So is just about everybody else you've invited here tonight. Besides, I though you said you wanted rid of the things."

For a while the man looked torn. Too agitated to conduct the whole process himself, but possessed of too much residual decency to let a certified crook fix a charity auction. Henry Peybury might have developed eye-strain of the conscience from perpetually looking the other way with regard to the less savoury endeavours of his co-directors and underlings at Voltage, but there were some things that were clearly just going too far.

Horrified at the prospect of a crooked auctioneer aiding some… some _other being's_ attempt to acquire the books, Aziraphale guiltily made a small and rather complicated hand gesture in the man's direction.

Henry Peybury immediately ceased his twitching.

"You know," he said after a few seconds had passed, "I think I might just be starting to feel better."

The woman looked faintly relieved. "Well, you should get up there and get it over with. The sooner this is done the sooner the books will go away. Not that I'm saying I believe you about them being cursed or haunted or whatever supernatural affliction it is, but the stress is obviously starting to get to you."

"But it's true, Jennifer," the man protested. "Strange things have been going on here ever since Milton brought them back from that auction. I mean, you wouldn't believe the phantom smells that I've come across this summer."

She stared at him incredulously. "Phantom… _smells_?"

"Dreadful ones. They're usually a horrible cross between old cigarette smoke and rancid milk."

The woman gave what looked to be a very deep and long-suffering sigh. "Henry, just get up there and flog your wares."

Heeding this instruction, Henry turned the microphone and cleared his throat. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen and anybody not covered by either of these categories."

There was a polite titter from the crowd.

Aziraphale did try to listen as the man went on to talk about the wonderful work done by the Summerstorm Hospice and how the proceeds of the auction would be going to improve the facilities there, but his eyes were fixed on the two sets of books on the display table.

"…and now we commence with a set of excellently preserved 15th century demonology texts. Who'd like to start the bidding at five hundred pounds?"

The angel immediately raised his hand.

"Five fifty?"

A corpulent, red-faced man who was, for reasons best known to himself, outfitted as a 1920s mobster, in a suit about three sizes too small, raised his hand, eyes gleaming acquisitively.

"Six hundred."

A smug, dark-haired, American man in unfeasibly glinty glasses put in a bid.

"Six hundred and—" Henry Peybury instantly froze as the sound of something remarkably redolent of a war cry resounded through the building, followed swiftly by the sound of a hacking cough. Seconds later, the library doors were flung open and an elderly, thoroughly enraged and thoroughly unsanitary looking man barged into the room.

"Oh dear," groaned Aziraphale, at once knowing that the next ten minutes were going to be deeply awkward and uncomfortable.

Next to the podium, the thin woman's nose wrinkled; an action that was swiftly and involuntarily imitated by half the people in the immediate vicinity.

"Erm, Henry, would that by any chance be the 'phantom smell' you were talking about."

The man gulped. "Not quite as pungent as this, but yes, that's the one." He took a step backwards as wizened yet relentless form began to encroach upon him, finger raised to point accusingly at him companion. Throughout the rest of the room there was a good deal of shuffling as several people headed for the exit, whilst several more reached for their camera phones.

"Though ye could get away with it, didn't ye? Ye thieving little buggers."

Henry Peybury took another step backwards. "I'm very sorry, Sir, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Thought that the Witchfinder Army wouldn't catch up with you, eh?"

The man's brow creased in perplexity. "The _Witchfinder Army_?"

With a sigh Aziraphale stood; moral obligation overriding natural embarrassment. "Mr. Shadwell, I'm sure that if you could just calm down—"

"Ach, I should 'ave know you'd be here, ye big southern pansy," said Shadwell, continuing to advance. "Well, I'll tell ye this, laddie. I'm not a man teh calm down when the history of the Witchfinder Army's being auctioned off by some southern ponce."

"Look, this really isn't—"

"Ye'll shut yer trap, hellspawn, or it'll be the finger for you."

Aziraphale sighed, not quite sure what to do for the best. He knew that Shadwell was far too stubborn to respond to any kind of subtle angelic influence, but the full scale miracle it would probably take to halt the un-retired Witchfinder Sergeant probably wouldn't go down too well with Gabriel.

As Shadwell drew nearer the thin woman took the microphone. "Look," she said, "could one of you lot _please_ restraing him so we can all carry on with the auction?"

With a deeply amused expression on his face the smug American got out of his seat and strode into the path of the oncoming Witchfinder Sergeant.

"Out of the way, boy," Shadwell boomed.

The American gave a derisory snort.

With a roar, Shadwell charged forward and threw a surprisingly powerful punch, which the American – in an even more surprising move – caught the fist his hand before it could it could dislocate his jaw. Clearly seething, Shadwell punched with his other fist, which was again duly caught.

For a moment Shadwell appeared to consider his position: Mr. Left Jab and Mr. Right Hook had clearly failed and there was now some smirking Nancy boy (of an undoubtedly Southern persuasion) restraining both of his hands. The Witchfinder Sergeant therefore took the only option left available to him.

He used his head.

A horrible cracking sound resounded through the library, followed by a loud thud as the body hit the ground.

"Oh no," Aziraphale groaned, banishing the broken nose and fractured skull with a wave of his arm.

Two seconds later the library door was opened once more and another very familiar figure stepped inside and gave a deep, fondly disapproving sigh.

"Oh you old silly, what have you done now. You know what Doctor Partridge said about getting into fights."

Shadwell cringed. "Ach, not now woman, can't yeh see I'm working."


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: This might be my last update for a few weeks as I'm currently working on a my fic for goexchange on Livejournal. As always, the unabridged, none PG-13, version of this fic can be found on my journal.

-

The first thing that Wensleydale noticed as he pulled his car into what seemed to be the last remaining space in the grounds of Peybury Hall was the fact that Newton Pulsifer's Wasabi was residing incongruously between a blue BMW and a gunmetal grey Aston Martin. The second thing he noticed was that Anathema Device was standing at the entrance to the fancy-looking building and appeared to be in the process of delivering first aid to the two burly men slumped to the side of the door. The third, and by far the most disconcerting thing he noticed was the strange, yet somehow horribly familiar man exiting the sleek, black Limousine that had overtaken him on the single carriage way leading out of Willowholme. Wensleydale could not recall a single instance of ever speaking to, or indeed seeing, the man before – and he was pretty damned certain that any such encounter with the slim, sharp boned man would have stuck in his memory. However, he couldn't shake the eerie feeling that he knew him from somewhere: an eerie feeling that was multiplied by a factor of a thousand when the man paused in his steps, peered at Wensleydale's car and gave a smile and a nod.

In the back seat Adam sighed and muttered something about being late.

"Well, it's not my fault," said Brian, who didn't seem to have picked up on the presence of either the fallen bouncers or their fellow Tadfieldian. "It was Pepper and Wensley who took ages to shower and get changed."

"At least we could be bothered to clean ourselves up a bit before we went out," countered Pepper, deliberately wrinkling her nose. "You could have at least had a bit of wash and changed your t-shirt. You were sweating buckets earlier. I mean, okay, by the looks of things we're clearly deep in capitalist bastard territory here, but that doesn't mandate that we have to show our disapproval at their oppressive, selfish mindset by going around wafting BO at them."

"People bathe too much," Brian protested. "Our society's fixation with hygiene is bad for the environment."

"Look, none of this is important right now," said Adam. "We need to get in there."

Brian opened his mouth to protest, but promptly seemed to think the better of it. Throughout the last five minutes or so of the drive Adam had started to become a tad…. well, not _quite_ agitated, but close. 'More anxious and preoccupied than usual' was probably the most accurate description, though it did rather fail to capture the unusualness of the situation. As a general rule Adam Young just _didn't_ do anxious; so when he did his friends tended to become more than a little unsettled.

"Hey, isn't that Anathema?" said Pepper, finally noticing that their neighbour appeared to be tending to the two fallen men, who were decked out in what looked like one the classier variants of nightclub bouncer uniform.

"Her and Newt are on holiday in Summerstorm Point," said Adam.

Pepper frowned. "What are they doing coming to a place like this though? I'm pretty sure that Anathema doesn't approve of people who drive cars like these."

"Not to mention the carbon footprint that this whole thing must be leaving," added Brian, gesturing disapprovingly in the direction of the huge house in which just about every window was lit.

Adam didn't respond.

"Adam," said Wensleydale, "when you said there was a friend down here who you needed to see because they were having some kind of trouble at work, you didn't mean that Newt had got fired again, did you? Because that whole incident with office photocopier and the rerouted military satellite really wasn't his fault: and I bet he could sue for unfair dismissal if—."

"No, Newt's fine," said Adam, shaking his head. "And so is Anathema. The friend I was talking about is somebody else."

Wensleydale sighed. "You're being cryptic again."

"I'm sorry," said Adam, sounding genuinely apologetic. "It's just… it's just that it wouldn't be right to tell you about his… issues."

Not quite sure how best to respond Wensleydale didn't say anything. Neither did Pepper or Brian.

"Look, are we going in there, or not?" said Brian, after a period of silence lasting about half a minute had passed: his words snapping the spell of inertia that had briefly settled over the Them and finally urging them from the confines of the car and out into the air of a pleasantly warm summer night.

As it transpired, Anathema did not appear to be quite as surprised to see them as Wensleydale, Brian and Pepper had been to see her. Though she did raise an eyebrow when Adam evaded her question as to what had brought them to the party at Peybury Hall.

"What are you doing here?" asked Pepper, as Anathema secured a makeshift sling around the arm of one of the large and severely bruised men to whom she was tending. "It doesn't really seem like your type of place."

"It's not," said Anathema. "There an auction going on here tonight and Shadwell…. You three remember Shadwell, don't you?"

The Them gave a collective nod. They were, all four of them, certain that they'd never forget the day that the elderly man had come to the Tadfield Village Fete, accused the vicar's wife of 'meddling in the Unnatural Arts' (to be fair the coconut shy _had_ been fixed, but with the use of nails rather than arcane magic) and demanded to do an on the spot nipple count.

"Well, he thinks that some of the books being auctioned were originally stolen from him and he came here to confront the present owner. And, well, you can see that things got a bit out of hand when security demanded to see our invitations."

One of the burly men groaned at the memory.

"That's horrible," said Brian, eye widening. "How could anybody who lives in a place like this steal from somebody like… like _him_."

Pepper didn't say anything but her at once furious expression said a lot about her views on social injustice and anger towards grabby rich bastards who steal off senior citizens.

"Look, to be fair, we're not sure that he's got it right," she said. "He can sometimes get bit paranoid about things like this. Newt still remembers the time he accused the woman from the local fish and chip shop of spying on him because she walked passed the house three times in one day."

"Do you need any help here?" said Wensleydale, looking from Anathema to the two very sorry-for-themselves looking security men and feeling obliged to offer his – somewhat out of practice – first aid skills.

Anathema smiled and shook her head. "Thanks Wensley, but I think I've done as much as can be done right now. I'm just waiting with Gary and Graeme until Gary's friend shows up to take them to A and E. Newt and Tracy have gone inside to try and make sure there aren't any more casualties."

"We were on the door here two years ago at the last party, but we didn't meet anything like him," said one of the men, shaking his head in a mixture of shock and respect, while his companion gave a grunt of assent.

"We need to go in now," said Adam, giving Anathema a wide smile. "We'll see you inside later."

It not occurring to the rest of the Them to protest or question the statement, the four stepped into the unguarded entrance hall.

----------

At exactly the same time as Adam and his friends were entering the building, an exhausted demon was flat on his back and catching his breath; while the sticky and extremely content looking personification of pollution draped himself over his chest.

Crowley found it faintly worrying that the most prominent emotion he was currently experiencing was not fear or panic or just plain 'Oh dear G— Somebody what in the name of Milton Keynes have I done', but rather an overwhelming sense of fondness for the pale, beautiful, and thoroughly debauched creature that was presently curled around him.

"Well, that was, er… fun," he said, absent mindedly running a hand through the entity's now-tangled white hair, as he mentally debated what the best thing to say right now actually was, or, if indeed, if was really a good idea to say anything at all. If he'd just been with a random human he'd picked up, he would have doubtless been giving his standard 'You were great, but I really must be going' spiel by now. However, the fact was that he was rather comfortable where he was (even if their exertions had led to the disintegration of most of the bed sheets) and Pollution was neither human nor a random pick-up.

"Oh, yes," said Pollution, in breathy yet excitable tones, as he ran a slick hand down the side of the demon's body. "Yes it was. Nobody's ever done anything like that to me before."

"Really?" said Crowley, experiencing a wave of wholly irrational satisfaction at the idea that he was the first being in the whole of creation to do _this _with the personification, followed very swiftly by a wave of slightly more rational unease about the whole thing. When it came to humans he knew that being the 'first' could often entail a whole world of messy emotional fallout; and while Pollution was decidedly other than human, he was - on an individual level at least - rather more dangerous than any of them and quite possibly rather less inhibited than most.

Still, the youngest Horseperson didn't seem the least bit distressed by what had just transpired between them.

"I never really considered the possibility of sharing something like that with anybody else before. It just didn't occur to me."

"Yeah, I suppose it was the same with me, in a way," said Crowley. "I spent hundreds of years watching the humans going at it like… well, humans, without ever entertaining the idea of participating. And then one month I started to get curious and that, as they say, was that."

"Have you done this with lots of beings?" Pollution asked, fingers suddenly pausing in their teasing.

"You could say that. Lost count after the first couple of millennia though."

Pollution's lips pursed in a manner that, while not exactly hostile, hinted at some kind of mild displeasure at the statement.

At once overcome by a sense that he'd put his metaphorical foot in it the demon, much to his shame, found himself spouting a line that had never failed to induce a prolonged fit of eye-rolling on his part whenever he overheard it being uttered by one human to another.

"None of them were like you though. You're pretty dam— bloody unique."

It was lame. It was corny. It was, as far as the Disgustingly Trite Platitude Scale went, probably even worse than 'it's not you, it's me'. Yet, to his simultaneous relief and utter horror, the entity did not respond by rolling his eyes, but by quirking the corners of his lips upwards and resuming the light stroking.

"I want to do it again," he said.

----------

In the library of Peybury Hall, carnage appeared to have been averted. Madam Tracy's entrance seemed, much to Aziraphale's relief, to have removed some (though certainly not all) of the homicidal intent from Shadwell's expression. In addition to this, the small woman called Jennifer had succeeded in clearing the room of all the legitimately invited guests barring herself, her friend and the concussed American reprobate, by telling them that the auction had been adjourned and that if they'd like to make their way to the ballroom there would be light refreshments and a performance by an opera singer of respectable credentials, or alternatively, if they'd like to make their way to rose garden there was currently an orgy in progress. When her friend the barmaid – an obviously compassionate individual who was, despite the apparent apathy of just about everybody else in the room trying to offer an ice-pack and soothing words to the American – quietly queried the veracity of the latter claim the woman had merely shrugged and said 'well, if there wasn't one going on before, there sure as hell is now'.

"So, what you're essentially saying, Mr. Shadwell," said the very nervous Henry Peybury, who was presently slumped in one of the chairs on the front row, "is that you fell asleep while you were waiting at Bakerloo Station with the books in an old Kwik Save carrier bag, and when you woke up you found that they were missing?"

Shadwell nodded. "Aye, that'd be it. And don't forget the tin o'milk and packet of sausages that were in there too."

Madam Tracy, who'd also taken a vacated front row seat, gave a sigh. "I'm partly to blame," she said. "It was me who told him to get the things disinfected by a professional. But they were starting to smell something terrible."

"Yeh shouldn't tae fussed about it so, woman," muttered Shadwell, as Aziraphale inwardly wept at the thought of the maltreatment that the poor books must have endured while in Shadwell's possession. "Anyhow, I suspected that it was one of them witches come back tae claim what Witchfinder General Bartholomew confiscated from their evil, wiling fingers, back when he was a Witchfinder Lieutenant." He suddenly turned a suspicious eye on Jennifer, who was currently leaning, hands on hips, against the podium. "You wouldn't be one of them daughters o'the night, would you, lassie?

The woman shook her head, surprisingly unfazed by the question. "No, I've always been more of a 'behind the scenes' sort of girl myself. Spent three years doing the purchase ledger for _Sensual Massages_ in Kings Cross and six on web maintenance for _Get It Hardcore Productions_."

Clearly somewhat nonplussed by this response Shadwell paused for a moment, before defaulting back to the line of questioning he knew best. "Are you sure? Ye've the look of the dark side about you."

She gave a shrug. "Comes from working in computer services."

Aziraphale found himself cringing as the next question began to form on Shadwell's lips, yet he knew that there was nothing short of a full scale burst of divine reproach that could prevent its utterance.

Jennifer however merely seemed mildly perplexed. "Just the two," she said, before adding: "I've got the left one pierced, if that helps."

Madam Tracy gave a sympathetic wince. "Oh, that must have hurt a lot, love. My niece told me that one of her friends had it done and the poor thing ended up in casualty when it got infected."

Jennifer nodded. "Yeah, a lot of people don't realise quite how clean you've got to keep it for the first few months. And, when it comes down to it, some body art studios are just breeding grounds for streptococcal bacteria." She gave an involuntary shudder. "I remember when one of the models for _Get it Hardcore_ got her—"

"Yes, well, that all well and good," snapped Shadwell, whose face appeared to have once again turned a bright shade of red, but this time for reasons that had very little to do with righteous indignation. "But that still doesn't explain what this young whelp here's doing with Army property." He once again pointed an accusing finger at Henry, who instantly recoiled.

"My half-brother said he picked them up in London," the panicked looking man said.

Shadwell's eyes narrowed. "Ah, so yeh admit it then?"

"Admit what?"

"Handling stolen Witchfinder Army property."

"NO!" The man threw his hands in the air in a show of obvious distress. "I… I had no idea the books were stolen."

"He really didn't," said Jennifer. "My husband left them here in Henry's library just before he got sent down in South America, and Henry decided to auction them off tonight, because he thought that they were under some kind of occult influence."

"So it was yer husband that stole them then, girl?"

She gave a shrug. "To tell you the truth I can't be entirely certain. But my guess is that even my Milton – nasty, lying, cheating, amoral little bastard that he is – wouldn't rob old aged pensioners. I mean, priceless Inca artefacts with supposed 'mythological powers' are one thing. But the contents of some elderly bloke's Kwik Save bags? Well, I don't think that he'd ever stoop quite that low. He probably picked them up off some dodgy book dealer that he knows."

On hearing this Shadwell immediately put two and two together and proceeded to make one hundred and thirty-six. At least, this was the only conclusion that Aziraphale was able to draw from the accusing manner in which the Witch Finder Sergeant's suddenly turned his gaze upon him.

"Oh honestly, do you really think that I'd be here to buy the books – which I had no idea were from anything other than a reputable source – if I'd sold them to this woman's husband in the first place?" the angel said, purposefully neglecting to mention the occasion upon which he'd spent seven years attempting to repurchase a signed, first edition copy of Alice in Wonderland he'd once been morally compelled to allow a customer to buy off him (the dratted man had walk in during one of the shop's infrequent and anti-social opening hours and had resolutely persisted in insisting that he should be able to exchange money for the item).

"Aye, I suppose that'd be true," conceded Shadwell, though his expression remained suspicious.

"Look," said Jennifer. "The way I see it there's a very simple solution to this whole situation. If Henry gives Mr. Shadwell his books back along with a bit of compensation to cover travel expenses and emotional damages and all that; then we can all get back to the party."

Aziraphale knew that this was probably the most sensible, pragmatic and, above all, morally correct way to proceed. But the thought of the poor, ancient tomes being subjected to an existence under Shadwell's ownership was enough to make him cringe in horror.

Shadwell, for his part, seemed to deliberate the offer at length, before once again narrowing his eyes and opening his mouth to speak. "And how much would this 'compensation' of yours be then?"

Clearly cheered by the idea that this whole sorry ordeal could soon be over, Henry Peybury took a Mont Blanc pen and chequebook from the inside of his jacket and jotted something down on the first leaf, before tearing it out and tentatively handing it to Shadwell.

For several moments the Witchfinder Sergeant merely stared at the little sheet of paper, his eyes widening in what could probably best be described as 'complete and utter shock'.

After around half a minute Madam Tracy got out of her seat and peered over Shadwell's shoulder at the figure on the cheque.

"Oh good Lord," she said, eyebrows shooting upwards.

"That is enough, isn't it?" said Henry, more than a note of pleading in his voice.

For a few seconds Shadwell spluttered a little before he finally fully retook control of himself. "Aye, laddie," he said. "I think that'll just about cover it. Only _just_ mind."

As Madam Tracy started to talk excitedly about using the money to get a new fitted kitchen, in a last ditch attempt to save the precious, mishandled texts from further abuse, Aziraphale cleared his throat. "I don't suppose that you'd ever consider selling—"

"Never," roared Shadwell, before the angel could finish making his offer. "I'd not trust a great southern pansy like you with Witchfinder heritage. That'd be treason.… No it'd be worse than treason. It'd be _Mishandling Army Property_."

The angel gave a heavy sigh. "If you're sure."

"The Defoe collection's still up for sale if you're interested," said Henry. "The guests all seem to have dispersed a bit and… well, advertising is one thing, but I just don't think I'm cut out for a career in auctioneering."

Aziraphale immediately brightened. "You mean you're willing to sell it to me here and now?"

The man nodded. "If that would be acceptable."

The angel positively beamed. "It would be splendid, dear fellow. Would you like to settle on a price now?"

As the man opened his mouth to respond in the affirmative the door opened and a tall, slim, male-shaped figure with dark hair and a horribly open, friendly smile walked into the room.

To the ethereal eye the first whisperings of hunger forming suddenly and without cause in the humans' minds and stomachs were very easy to spot.

"Dr. Sable!" exclaimed Henry. "I didn't think you'd be able to make it."

The smile deepened. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Henry. You guys at Voltage have been doing some really top notch work for us."

As Famine's gaze turn from Henry to Aziraphale, the angel gulped. He was palpably aware that the Horsepersons had not taken kindly to the aversion of the Apocalypse and, given his role in said apocalyptical aversion, he wasn't particularly keen on the idea of coming into close contact with any of the lesser three and finding out whether or not any grudge was still harboured. As it was however, the Horseperson merely gave him an amicable nod of acknowledgement, before turning his gaze to the other individuals present.

"What happened here?" he said, gesturing to the injured American, who was currently muttering something about having to get somebody called Nagi to destroy Youtube in the morning.

"Just a slight misunderstanding," said Henry.

"I see that everything I've been told about your legendary parties is true." Famine gave a small and distinctly business-like laugh. "You should see what's going on in your rose garden."

"I told you so," said Jennifer, shooting a knowing look at her friend.

Famine looked the woman up and down. "You're marvellously slim, young lady?"

"It's the gastric ulcers," she said, by way of explanation.

"How serendipitous. Though, if I may offer a mild critique, your hips are a just a little too large for your shoulders."

Looking distinctly affronted, the woman appeared as though she were about to offer a sharp retort, when a muffled cry coming from the direction of the ceiling caused her to suddenly freeze.

"Did you hear that?" she said, looking from her friend to her brother-in-law and back again.

"Hear what?" said Henry.

"It sounds like it's coming from Milton's old room."

"I can't hear anything," said her friend. "Oh no… wait now I can."

"It sounds like somebody saying 'demon'," said Madam Tracy.

"Demon! Where?" Shadwell demanded, before being shushed by Madam Tracy.

As the humans struggled to hear Aziraphale found himself turning a bright shade of red as the noises from the floor above filtered through his angelic hearing loud and clear.

"Dear chap, what on earth are you _doing_ with him?"


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: This chapter was a bit of a long time coming as I spent most of last month working on a fic for the Good Omens Holiday Exchange over on Livejournal. I've been a bit off-colour this week, so apologies in advance for any dreadful abuses of spelling, punctuation or grammar that may have resulted from the catastrophic case of brain-failure I've had.

-

_"More demon, more." _

As the muffled cries of enthusiastic pleasure filtered down through the ancient floorboards of Peybury Hall, Sable found himself frowning. Though rather more breathless and desperate than usual, the voice was instantly recognisable. His colleague was clearly embroiled in more than just a simple crisis of direction, and it took no great stretch of the imagination to guess whom he was embroiled in it with. Sable didn't like it. Not one bit. 

_"I want to you to touch every inch of me." _

"You're a dirty," gasp, "filthy," pant, "tart," noise like a wounded animal, "you know that?" 

The angel blushed.

The women giggled.

The Witchfinder Sergeant – whose personal hygiene would have had Pestilence beaming from ear to pustulent ear – scowled.

The concussed American just muttered something about the Dow Jones falling next Thursday.

_"Yes, I'll your filthy tart."_

Henry Peybury looked as though he was about to cry.

"Come on, Henry," said the exquisitely thin redhead, managing to hold back an obvious urge to snigger. "Could you imagine having to listen to _that_ every time you…." She made an obscene yet very succinct hand gesture.

"I suppose your right," the man said, looking less than convinced.

"Of course I am."

The elderly Witchfinder Sergeant's scowl deepened. "There's demons abroad in this house of sin an' all yer can do is stand around chattering like a bunch o'wimmin."

The angel, who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute, gave a sigh. "Mr. Shadwell, I really don't think that this falls within your jurisdiction."

The old man positively seethed. "Think ye know more than me about the duties of a Witchfinder Sergeant, do ye, ye big Southern ponce?"

"Now don't be so silly," said the Witchfinder Sergeant's overly made-up companion. "There's no point getting all worked up about what Mr. Peybury's guests are doing upstairs."

As the dirty talk gave way to incoherent moans, Sable, feeling deeply troubled, yet not quite able to articulate to himself why, fixed Henry with a piercing gaze.

"How did White come to be here tonight?"

The man drew back a little as Sable's attention was focussed aggressively upon him.

"He's a friend of Jennifer and Abigail's."

"More of an acquaintance than friend," interjected the thin woman. "I don't really know anything about him other than the fact that he's decent artist in the middle of that 'What is the meaning of life?' crap they all seem to get."

From the floor above there came an especially loud and wanton moan.

"He also seems to have terrible taste in men," she added. "Not that I've got any right to throw stones in that regard, of course."

Henry shifted uncomfortably, an audible rumble coming from the direction of his now very hungry stomach. "He did mention to me that the two of you used to work together, but that he got bored of the occupation." He gave a regretful sigh. "But then, that's the nature of the artistic temperament, I suppose: bright, brilliant and just about as flighty as you can get."

Sable gave a small laugh. It was the reassuring chuckle of somebody who has complete faith in their ability to deal with the foibles of others.

"It's just a temporary glitch. The kid's a creative prodigy, but, like you say, he's as flighty as they come. What he really needs is a little guidance and understanding."

"A few weeks work in some crappy, barely legal, dead end job would probably help. Nothing like that to bring you back down to earth," said the thin woman.

"Jenny!" cried her regrettably robust and healthy friend. "That's an awful thing to say. He needs a new boyfriend and a sense of perspective, not a stint on the graveyard shift."

The thin woman stood firm. "In my experience there's nothing like spending three month in a cramped, over-heated, badly-ventilated industrial unit, sewing zips onto pairs of knockoff jeans to give you a sense of perspective."

"Darling, I do think you're being a bit harsh," said Henry. "I know that all these experiences were probably as character building for you as boarding school was for me, but they really can crush the creative spirit in less resilient individuals."

Sable smiled. It was not in any way a nasty, cruel or in any way suspicious smile, but all of the humans in the room began to feel a certain amount of discomfort as his thin lips quirked. "She's got a point, Henry. Right now he doesn't have anything to ground him and, well, let's just say that there have been a few 'issues' as a result."

"What kind of 'issues'?" asked Henry.

"A few situations within what you might call _The Organisation_."

"Oh dear." A look of worry flashed across the man's face. "Nothing too severe, I hope."

"Nothing that'll threaten the company or our relationship with Voltage, I promise you. What I meant was that he's left a space on the personnel roster that'll be damned hard to fill if I can't persuade him to return."

Henry instantly relaxed. Sable was good at reassuring people, it was a skill he'd picked up over the millennia of convincing village chiefs that the grain store didn't need to be expanded in preparation for any potential winter shortage and that the resources would be better devoted to preparing for an imminent invasion by that other small clan who lived on the other side of the hill/forest/lake/glacier (Carmine was always appreciative of his help). Besides, he was telling the truth. Whatever happened with White, he'd still need an amoral advertising company to help him promote his books and products.

"Do you think that you'll be able to: get him to go back, that is?"

"I'm pretty confident that I can persuade him that it'd be in everybody's best interest for him to rejoin us."

He smiled to himself as the angel gave an almost sub-audible _'I really do hope so'_. Despite the heavenly agent's obvious unease at his presence, Sable did not bear any great amount of ill will towards the being vis-à-vis the aversion of the Apocalypse. Whilst being reduced to nothing more than a concept floating in the roiling sea of human consciousness had been unpleasant, it had also been a temporary state and one that he'd quickly sprung back from. Famine been killing time and people for several highly satisfying millennia and was perfectly content to continue to do for several more. If push came to metaphorical shove, the angel Aziraphale could become an ally in this matter. However unconventional he might be, the angel was still a divine being: and Sable was certain no divine being could approve of the effect that White's dereliction of duty was having.

"In a way I blame myself," he said, allowing his smile to turn rueful. "When I look back I see that I could have been a better mentor; should have been there when he started having his doubts. But hindsight, as they say, is twenty-twenty."

"He still seems to think about you a lot," said Henry cautiously, clearly not quite certain of the exact nature of the relationship between Sable and White. "He did the most wonderful drawing of you on the wall outside my study."

Sable raised a thin, dark eyebrow. It was unusual and uncharacteristic, but he couldn't help but feel a tinge of something approaching pleasure at the thought "He did a drawing of me?"

The man nodded. "It was amazing, I'm not quite sure how best to describe it, but—"

Before he got a chance to attempt to describe the seemingly indescribable, Henry was cut off by a loud and extremely startled yelp from above.

_"Oh dear God. I thought this was the bathroom."_

The voice was unfamiliar to Sable, but it caused the Witchfinder Sergeant to suddenly stand bolt upright, face contorting into an expression of horror and disgust.

"What in the name of God are they doin' tae the boy," he raged. "Tis one thing for them to perform their diabolic rituals alone, but makin' him watch them summoning up some foul fiend… Well, I won't stand fer it."

"Now steady on, love," said his companion, in a soothing voice, as she grabbed his shoulder. "The silly boy probably just walked into the wrong room by accident."

Refusing point blank to be soothed, the Witchfinder Sergeant shrugged off the woman's grip. "I have tae save my Private damn you all," he cried out, waving a fist and heading towards the door.

After a moment of silence the angel cleared his throat. "Do you think we should…?"

"Follow him?" Sable supplied. "It might be for the best."

"I'd better show you the way," said Henry, before hesitating for a second and turning to the thin woman. "Jennifer, you're still sober aren't you."

"Of course, I am," she said, looking mildly resentful about the fact. "Doctors orders."

"You wouldn't mind driving down to _Dibbler & Dibbler's_ and picking me up a Weekend Discount Extra Spicy Special, would you?"

The woman positively gaped. "Haven't you heard about the state of their kitchens? They've been shut down twice this year on the grounds that the place was a severe hazard to public health. Hell, I've even heard that MI5 once investigated them for possible links to international bioterrorism."

"I know," he said helplessly. "It's completely insane, but I've got this sudden almighty craving a… a big, greasy kebab with that mouth immolating saurce of theirs."

"Henry, I'm not driving all the way to Summerstorm Point to buy you a botchulism infested kebab." She smirked. "Well, unless you'd be willing to let me borrow that Aston Martin of yours for the next month."

For around a second and a half Henry seemed to give the proposition serious consideration.

"On second thoughts, I could probably just get something from the caterers," he said, defying his stomach's angry growl.

As the Hungry, hapless Henry Peybury proceeded to lead Sable and the angel Aziraphale out of the library and towards a large wooden staircase, up which the Witchfinder Sergeant was already heading surprising speed, the personification of Famine made certain to render every variant of foodstuff within the confines of Peybury Hall inedible. Well, every variant of foodstuff barring the harder types of liquor. It always did to give a nod to Carmine's favourite social lubricant when one could.

----------

For almost half a minute Newton Pulsifer stood, frozen to the spot, as the men entwined on the tattered bed sheets stared at him. His mind was giving his feet very firm instructions to turn around and walk away very quickly. His feet on the other hand were opting to remain resolutely fixed to the spot.

The hapless Witchfinder Private didn't quite have the mental vocabulary to adequately describe the level of stomach churning embarrassment he was currently experiencing. However, it was definitely up there with the time he'd accidentally spammed every member of _United Holdings PLC_ with a obscene photograph of a man and a sheep (he'd been trying to forward a spreadsheet to his boss); and though this situation would not lead to him being sent for mandatory psychiatric evaluation and counselling, it was still utterly mortifying.

"Look, do you mind," snapped the worryingly familiar dark haired man, clearly growing tired of the gaping interloper.

Newt tried once again to get his feet to work. When this failed he attempted to engage his vocal chords. Alas, he couldn't seem to manage more than a stuttered "S...s...sorry."

"Why is his presence of any consequence?" asked the paler, younger looking man with the white hair. Disturbingly, this seemed to be a genuine question on his part.

The dark haired man opened his mouth, with the ostensible intention of giving a firm run down as to why Newt's presence was very much 'of consequence' when he suddenly paused and gaped at Newt.

"Oh ssshit!"

"What is it?" he demanded, the resultant stab of panic somehow returning control of his vocal and motor functions to him.

"Your hands."

Confused, Newt held them up to his face, before promptly blanching when he saw that they were now a) covered in angry little blisters and b) swelling at an alarming rate.

"What the hell have you done to him?" the dark haired man demanded of his pale lover, who merely responded by quirking his head.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh come on, it sure as hell wasn't me. I mean, look at him, he's… going up like a balloon."

The pale man shrugged and proceeded to start caressing his bedfellow's chest. "Oh that, it was something I perspired. It sometimes happens when I'm excited... and you got me very excited."

Had he not at that moment felt his throat begin to swell, Newt might very well have found it within himself to either leg it or, at the very least, strongly chide the two men for their obvious lack of elementary manners. As it was however, he just about managed to croak out a quiet but very direct: "Could you call an ambulance please?"

"Oh for someonesss sssake!" the dark haired man hissed, visibly paling. "What's the antidote?"

Still the epitome of calm unconcern the pale man gave another shrug. "I wouldn't know. I've never excreted antidotes. Well, apart from the ones that cause more damage that the poison itself." He nipped the top of the dark haired man's right ear, before pouting a little when his lover failed to respond to the gesture. "Why don't you just banish it from him?"

The dark haired man's eyes widened. "What, you mean heal him?"

"Yes."

"I couldn't do that. I'm a demon."

The pale man gave a small musical laugh and buried his face in the crook of the other man's neck. "But you're not truly interested in furthering the diabolic agenda. Neither of us would be here if you were. If you had the world would have already ended."

"Yes, but that still doesn't make me not a demon."

Not quite certain how much of what he was presently witnessing was an audio-visual hallucination Newt attempted to redirect the line of conversation back to what he personally felt to be the most pressing matter.

"Look, I could really do with one of you calling an ambulance… or finding Anathema. You see I'm having slight difficulty breathing… and…." He stopped speaking as it became necessary for him to slump to the floor and focus on trying to get a minimal level of oxygen to his lungs.

The last thing he saw before his vision began to dark over was the dark haired man making a reluctant rather peculiar hand gesture in his direction.

The last thing he heard was a flurry of footsteps, followed by a very familiar voice denouncing witches, demons and southerners, and declaring that it was 'The Finger' for anybody who got in his way.

----------

Just as an enraged Witchfinder Sergeant was rushing to Newton Pulsifer's rescue, the Them were being briskly led through the ground floor of Peybury Hall by a scarily focussed Adam.

"Look, are you sure this is quite so urgent?" said Wensleydale, struggling to keep up as his gaze was captured by a tray of snacks that an immaculately suited waiter was carrying around on a silver platter. It was a sight that instantly reminded him that he hadn't eaten for several hours. "I mean, surely your friend's employment problems can wait for another ten or fifteen minutes."

Adam didn't answer, choosing instead to pick up the pace.

"Wensley's right," said Pepper, who was not struggling quite so hard to keep up with their friend's sudden increase in speed. "Wouldn't it be better to get our bearings before searching for this guy you're looking for? We could get a drink and ask around and…." She trailed off as Adam suddenly came to an abrupt halt.

"Oh _shit_!"

The three other members of the Them turned to stare at him.

Feeling concerned, Wensleydale opened his mouth to speak. "What's going—"

"They've found him," was Adam's worryingly cryptic response. "And now there's going to be a bloody huge row."

Pepper gaped. "Adam, what the hell are you on about?"

"I really need to go and make sure things don't get too ugly. You three should stay down here."

Before any of his three friends had a chance to respond, Adam set off, at preternatural speed, towards the staircase located at the opposite end of the hallway.

Wensleydale looked from Pepper to Brian, who seemed to be reacting to Adam's peculiar behaviour with annoyance and confusion respectively.

"He's just being Adam, right?" said Wensleydale, desperately seeking reassurance.

"Yeah," said Brian. "He's just being Adam, _but_…." He left the sentence hanging in the obvious hope that one of the other two would supply the sentiment in a more eloquent fashion than _'he seems to have gone off the bloody deep end this time'_.

"But he's being more Adam-like than is usual or healthy," said Pepper, in uncharacteristically diplomatic fashion.

"We should probably all talk to him and… and stuff," suggested Brian, clearly not wanting to use such aggressive words such as 'demand', 'confront' or 'challenge' when it came to Adam, but indirectly implying them all the same.

"We're probably not going to get much sense out of him tonight," said Wensleydale, doubtfully.

"Tomorrow then," said Pepper.

The two young men nodded. "Tomorrow," they chorused in unison.

"What do we do now then?" said Brian after a few seconds had lapsed.

Wensleydale shrugged. "I suppose we could look around. Maybe get something to eat and drink."

Pepper gave a grin. "Scoffing some immoral, over-privileged git's food and drink after gate-crashing his party sounds good to me."

-----------

Unlike the angel Aziraphale and Henry Peybury, Sable did not break into a run as the flight of stairs terminated and the shouts and yells of Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell began to echo down the hall. Instead he opted to continue at brisk but unhurried pace: taking time to briefly pause and appreciate the strange yet brilliant likeness of him that now resided in black marker on the wall of the corridor. Odd, he thought, as he resumed walking, that White would turn out to have such a talent for representing things at one remove from reality. Still, if he was entirely honest with himself – which unlike certain members of the angelic and demonic fraternity, he liked to think that he was rather adept at – Sable had to concede that he had never really paid his young co-worker the attention he had quite obviously needed. Well, all that was going to change. Just as soon as he could persuade White to see reason and return to his post.

"What tae've yeh done to him yeh flashy southern bastard?" he heard the elderly Witchfinder yell up ahead. "Tryin' to summon up some foul fiend with yer immoral rituals were you, eh? Well, it's going to be the finger for you and all your wicked demons."

Quickening his steps a little, he turned a corner to see a young man collapsed outside an open bedroom door and a flush-faced Henry Peybury leaning against the wall, coughing and wheezing.

"Oh Crowley, what have you done?" the angel demanded, making a series of complicated and slightly flailing hand gestures in quick succession, in a move to clear the air and the bodied of the afflicted humans of the potent toxins that had been swirling from the room.

"Hey, that wasn't me," protested a voice from within.

Sable gave a tiny smile. The embodiment of Pollution hadn't entirely forsaken his wonderful talents.

As the Witchfinder Sergeant continued his diatribe and the angel Aziraphale tended to the young man of the floor, Sable walked passed them and into the bedroom.

The sight of White entwined with the former Serpent of Eden caused him to experience a sharper and far stronger stab of the unpleasant emotion he'd experienced on hearing his young associates ecstatic cries whilst in the library.

"Hello White," he said, not deigning to acknowledge the demon Crowley, who recoiled in a strangely satisfying manner as he strode towards the edge of the bed.

Much to Sable's chagrin White did not bother to disentangle himself from the mildly panicked demon.

"Hello Sable," said the pale, beautiful entity. Not looking entirely happy about the presence of his recently estranged fellow Horseperson, but not seeming wholly upset about this sudden turn of events either. If anything he appeared to be… apprehensive. "What do you want?"

After a three second pause, during which the demon's obvious panic intensified in a highly gratifying manner, Sable spoke.

"White, you and I need to have a serious talk."


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: No Pestilence and Ernest in this chapter I'm afraid, but they will be making another appearance very soon.

-

It was fair to say that Anthony J. Crowley was not a happy demon.

Not only had a very pleasant bout of screwing just been interrupted by the wholly unexpected and unwanted appearance of a lost and befuddled Witchfinder Private – who'd promptly proceeded to have a massive allergic reaction to fourteen syllabled substance that Pollution had exuded during their little encounter – but Famine, Aziraphale and an enraged Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell had decided to drop by. This in itself would have merely have registered as deeply humiliating on the demon's Situational Negatively Scale had it not been the expression on the personification of starvation's face. If Crowley had been forced to describe said expression he would have probably opted for 'tight-lipped annoyance combined with seething, ice-cold resentment'. It was a look that caused the demon to shrink backwards as the Horseperson approached the bed and greeted his erstwhile co-worker.

"Hello White."

"Hello Sable. What do you want?"

There was a deeply uncomfortable pause during which the two Horsemen of the Apocalypse gazed at each other, the air between them practically crackling with the promise that something drastic was about to happen.

"White, you and I need to have a serious talk."

"What about?" said Pollution, gently tightening his grip on Crowley's midsection, a move that the demon found less than pleasing owing to the urge to get the H— heck away he was currently experiencing. Crowley got the distinct impression that Pollution knew exactly what Famine wanted to discuss but was, for reasons best known to himself, playing dumb.

Famine's lips grew even thinner. "Well, there's your dereliction of duty for a start."

There was a definite element of challenge in the way that Pollution regarded Famine. "There's nothing to discuss. I'm no longer interested in fulfilling my designated function."

"You are your function."

"Not any more."

"Look," said Crowley, more than a little panicked by the rising note of danger he perceive in the tones of both Horsemen, "do you really think that this is the right time and place for this?"

Famine regarded him in the same way that a human might regard a pigeon that was begging for scraps in a particularly annoying fashion. "Your input on this matter isn't required, Crowley."

Squirming in a decidedly non-erotic fashion, he gestured towards the collapsed Newt, furiously wheezing Shadwell and the hyperventilating Henry Peybury.

"There are people watching," he said, aware that neither of the personifications cared one bit about what any member of that class known as 'humanity' might think of what might, in a manner of speaking, pass for their private lives, but hoping against hope that Famine at least might have some sense of discretion when it came to directly and loudly discussing his designated role with his fellow Horsepersons.

Famine considered this for a moment, while Pollution once again started to slowly run his hands over Crowley's chest.

"That's true I suppose," the personification said. "Why don't you take them and leave."

"Hey, you're the one who just barged in here with them," Crowley protested, before the more rational parts of his brain had chance to inhibit the affronted irritation in his voice.

"What I'm trying to achieve here is more important than your libido, Anthony," said Famine, voice not straying from the calm corporate professionalism that the personification had adopted as part of his persona long before the words 'corporate' or indeed 'professional' had been dreamed up by humans, yet containing several notes of warning nonetheless.

The Horseman's use of his chosen first name startled the demon. He'd occasionally worked in close quarters with the personification of hunger and unfulfilled want in the past, but had never been addressed so informally by Famine. It was a move that he assumed the Horseman intended to be unsettling.

"He _is_ right, old chap," said Aziraphale, giving Crowley a beseeching look as he aided Newton Pulsifer to his feet. "It's probably best that we leave them to sort things out in private."

Pollution's hold on him immediately went from comfort-seeking to possessive. "I don't want you to leave."

"White, you're thinking's been clouded," said Sable in surprisingly gentle tones.

"No it hasn't," replied Pollution, a hint of petulance creeping into his voice. "It's just stopped being so narrowly focussed."

"You've lost your direction and sense of purpose."

"Yes, but what does it matter."

For a split second the demon thought he saw Famine's brow crease in wholly uncharacteristic frustration."Without our purposes we're nothing."

"If I am nothing then why do I still exist?"

"You exist because you've got a function to fulfil."

Feeling strangely irked on Pollution's behalf by Famine's broken record tactics, Crowley once again found good sense once again being overruled. "Look, he's already said that he's not interested in fulfilling his sodding function any more. If you're going to try and persuade him to go back, at least have the decency to give him a better reason than: 'because that's just the way things are'."

Famine's verbal response to the demon's outburst was not instantaneous.

Instead Crowley suddenly began to realise that it was an awfully long time since he'd had anything to eat. In fact, he was more than a little peckish. The demon swallowed. No, peckish really wasn't an appropriate description: bloody ravenous was the best way of putting it; and even that seemed a bit of an understatement.

As his began to audibly complain, he cast a panicked glance at Aziraphale, who looked helplessly back.

Famine gave a tight lipped half-smile. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Now look here," said Aziraphale. "I know that tempers are getting a little frayed right now, but that's really no reason to let things get out of hand."

"The problem is already are out of hand," said Famine. "I'm merely attempting to resolve the situation. Unfortunately, your opposite number is making things more difficult."

Pollution relinquished his hold on Crowley's abdomen, propped himself up on a slender, yet perfectly formed arm and looked his fellow personification in the eye. "I don't want you to resolve the situation, Sable. I want to explore existence beyond my designated function. The purpose for which I was formed no longer holds my interest. I want to find a new one."

"That isn't your decision to make," said Famine, tones taking on a distinctly edgy quality.

"What makes it yours?" Pollution retaliated.

"I'm representing the system that keeps everything functioning."

"You're being arrogant, Sable."

"And you're being an immature narcissist."

As the two entities regarded each other, something very dangerous began to flare in the atmosphere between them.

Finally allowing his self-preservational instincts to take control, Crowley tried to slither away from the two Horsemen, only to instantly find himself paralysed by hunger and hit by a tidal wave of extreme nausea. Certain that discorporation or worse was imminent he gave a strangled yelp.

When a very familiar golden-haired young man entered the room, the demon experienced a level of relief he hadn't felt since the Apocalypse That Wasn't.

"Stop it now," Adam commanded, as the two Horsemen continued their potentially catastrophic staring match.

Both Famine and Pollution immediately broke their gaze and turned to look at the decidedly irritated Son of Satan. Their expressions on seeing Adam Young however were very different. While Famine seemed pleased by the Antichrist's sudden appearance, Pollution's expression was one of quite obvious fear. Despite the fact that the entity had in all probability just come very close to sending Crowley on an unwanted trip back to the nether regions, the demon couldn't help but experience a rather undemonic jab of concern for his troublesome paramour.

Adam fixed Crowley with a meaningful look. "I think that you should go."

Crowley glanced at Pollution, who looked back at him with wide, scared eyes and felt a completely irrational and wash of protectiveness. It was a stupid emotion to experience in this situation, he knew. Pollution was clearly far less vulnerable to universe's unpleasantries than Crowley himself was, but there was something about his wearing _that_ expression that did something wretchedly embarrassing to the demon's psyche.

"I'm not going to do anything bad to him," said Adam, giving a sigh. "I just need to talk to him and Sable in private."

Torn between relief and reluctance, Crowley pulled himself up off the bed and, with a backwards glance at the still-fearful looking Pollution, headed towards the door.

"Dear boy, I really think you ought to make some effort to cover yourself," said Aziraphale.

Realising that the fact that the presence of three normal (for a very loose definition of 'normal') human beings precluded materialising a suit directly onto his body, he glanced around for something to obscure his nakedness.

After coming to the conclusion that the suit he'd been wearing previously was completely unsalvageable, he picked up what was left of one of the bed sheets and tied it around his waist, before heading out into the corridor.

The door immediately closed itself behind him.

"Well, this is certainly turning out to be an eventful evening," murmured Aziraphale, voice tinged with a hint of disapproval, as he supported a disoriented Witchfinder Private.

"I really didn't mean to intrude," croaked Newt. "I was just looking for the bathroom... I bumped into a woman drinking a bloody Mary on the stairs, you see and I wanted to get the mark out of my shirt before it had chance to stain and... and I walked in and they were... you know. And then I just started swelling up and choking."

"It's quite all right," Aziraphale said, obviously trying to sound soothing. "You seem to be recovering now."

The finger licking birthday boy looked apologetically at the Witchfinder Private. "I'm very sorry Mr..."

"Pulsifer."

"I really don't know what I could have in the building that could cause us to have breathing difficulties like that. We've never had any of our guests unwilling asphyxiated before... well, there was that incident with Japanese gentleman with the wire two years ago, but fortunately Mr. Crawford's German friend managed to detain him for the duration of the party."

"Maybe it was something one of your drug dealer pals brought with them," snapped Crowley, feeling less that charitably disposed towards the man.

"Drug dealers?" said Aziraphale, fixing the man with a look of utmost disapproval. Crowley knew very well that the angel had to have picked up on the presence of a whole plethora of unsavoury types at this ill-advised soiree, but he knew that Aziraphale sometimes found himself unable to resist dishing out admonishments when the less than righteous behaviour amongst those around him was made explicit.

Shamefaced, the man flailed a little. "I'm in the ad business," he said, by way of explanation.

"Well, yes, I do feel that that really is a problem you should try and work on," said Aziraphale reproachfully. "I fear, Mr. Peybury that you and I are going to have to have a very long talk sometime in the near future."

"Can we leave the party political broadcasts out for now?" said Crowley, aware that he really couldn't watch Aziraphale coax wayward souls towards the light without needing to go tit-for-tat.

"Sorry," the angel said, a look of mild guilt flittering across his face. "Force of habit."

"Are yeh certain that an exorcism wouldn't help at all?" said Shadwell, who seemed to have been quieted somewhat by inhaling the fifteen syllabled toxins that Pollution exuded and witnessing whatever it was that had passed between Famine and Pollution, but still had his one track mind firmly in gear. "It seems teh me that this whole wretched house o' sin could do with a good purging. I could give the finger to some of the guests."

Peybury's brow furrowed. "I don't see how that would improve the situation. My sister in law gave plenty of people the finger at my thirty-eighth, but it didn't stop us having to call out six ambulances, the police, the fire service and cave rescue."

"Ah, but I'm betting that the wee, fuzzy haired chit of a girl doesnae have a finger like this."

The man took a step back as Shadwell proudly displayed the finger in question: a move that the Witchfinder Sergeant seemed to take as vindicating his firm belief that it was a terrifying weapon of righteousness as opposed to merely a deeply unhygienic appendage that could probably do with being examined by a qualified health professional.

"Well, no," the man conceded, obviously rather perplexed. "Hers' are smaller and a little more...," he paused as he ostensibly searched for the most polite way of saying sanitary, "... manicured."

"Are you sure that you wouldn't be happier making certain that your good lady is all right?" Aziraphale said hastily, quite probably assuaged by the same visions of the Witchfinder Sergeant trying to conduct on the spot nipple counts that Crowley was having. "She did look rather concerned when you charged off like that. And we really must make certain that Mr. Pulsifer here isn't going to require further medical assistance."

Shadwell seemed to consider this for several seconds. "Aye, I suppose you have a point. I did leave her alone with that smug faced Nancy boy and those two little loose-moralled moppets of Mr. Peybury's."

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and raised an eyebrow.

"It's a long story," the angel said.

"Ah."

As the three men and two man-shaped beings headed away from the room where the personification of Famine, personification of Pollution and the Antichrist were doing G— Somebody knows what, Crowley began to feel very worn, very tired and – owing to the fact that he was presently wearing nothing but a stained remnant of bed sheet – very silly.

----------

"Okay, now this is a bit weird."

Neither Pepper nor Wensleydale responded directly to Brian's statement, but both were well aware that it was slightly odd that every tray of upmarket snacks they came across seemed to have been reduced to inedibility within the last ten minutes. The salmon crackers that one of the waitresses had been passing out to the guests loitering about the entrance hall had suddenly gone off, despite the fact that until a few moments previously people had been devouring them with what appeared to be great enjoyment. The stuffed olives the waiter on the terrace had been carting around had suffered a similar fate. And as for the delicately crafted marzipan treats that were on offer here in what seemed to be the ballroom... well, the smell spoke for itself.

"At least the booze is still fresh," said Pepper, taking her second glass of Dom Perignon of the evening from a silver tray proffered by one of the waiters.

Brian, who didn't particularly care for champagne gave a shrug. "I'd rather have a pint of Guinness myself."

"I'd rather have a hamburger," said Wensleydale, stomach rumbling. "Or a slice of pizza, or a sausage roll."

"The meat industry is unethical," Brian protested weakly, immediately trying to repel fantasies of steak and chips.

"Well, it doesn't look like there's anything we can eat in here," said Pepper, attempting to maintain a blasé attitude about the situation, and not let on how, if given the opportunity, she would quite probably sacrifice all ethical principles and pay several times the usual price for a Burger Lord Special With Strawberry Milkshake. "We could try the—" She stopped in her verbal tracks as she spotted something very strange occurring at the back of the room.

"Guys, are those two blokes doing what I think they're doing?" Her brow creased in disbelief.

Brian stared.

Wensleydale gaped. "They're... they're fighting over a vol-au-vent."

Pepper shook her head. "Now this _is_ weird."

----------

White looked from Sable to Adam and back again.

He was worried. Very worried. Despite his declaration that his existence was devoid of meaning now that he'd found himself without any inclination to perform his function, when it came down to it the idea that the Antichrist might try and make alterations to him filled him with horror. It was an emotion that he'd never really experienced with such intensity before, and one that he hoped that – should he survive this encounter as he was – he would never experience again.

"Please believe me when I say that I don't intend to change who you are or force you to do anything," the young man said, reading his thoughts. "That would just cause more problems than it would solve."

"Then why are you here?" asked Pollution, drawing his knees to his chest as if in pre-emptive and wholly ineffectual self-protection. He was aware that Adam Young had no reason to lie to him. Not when the young man had the power to change the universe with a single thought. However, this didn't stop him from feeling extremely wary.

"I've come here to try and persuade you to resume your role," said Adam, eyes quite obviously trying to avoid staring at the personification's nude form. In deference to the Antichrist's obvious and oh so human prudishness, White covered the lower portion of his body with the little bedding remained.

"I don't want to," he replied simply.

The Antichrist sighed. "You're here because you embody one of humanity's destructive tendencies and now you've stopped working... Well, people who shouldn't die are dying because your absence has gone and broken part of the mass consciousness."

White quizzically regarded the young man for a while. "Why should that be any of my concern?" he said eventually. "People died all the time because of me when I was dedicated to my function."

"But they died because of their own choices, because of the kind of environment them and the rest of humanity are creating for themselves." There was a look of frustration in his eyes. "It's all to do with cause and effect, you see. You've gone from being an effect of human behaviour to a cause of it and everything's all getting buggered up as a result. You've gone and messed about with their free will."

In the corner of the room which he now stood, Sable shook his head.

"Why is their human behaviour any of my concern?" White asked softly, knowing very well that he and the Son of Satan thought on very different cosmic wavelengths. "I came into existence because their 'mass consciousness', as you put it, gave birth to me and I went on to perform my function because I found the process engaging and the result beautiful. At no point was I ever concerned with why they do what they do. Now the results of my original purpose are mundane rather than beautiful and the process has become rote and stale."

Adam's frustration seemed to increase. "It's not just a question of what you want. It's... it's about the universe not breaking down."

"I told you," said White experiencing his own surge of frustration, "I was never concerned with the workings of the universe and humanity in and of themselves when I was fulfilling my function. They were inconsequential to the aesthetic pleasure I derived from my purpose."

"And what about now?" said Sable, cutting in before Adam had chance to reply.

White considered the question. "Now I'm learning that humans and their universe are fascinating," he replied.

"But you're destroying part of what makes them human," said Adam.

White gave a half-smile loaded with a potent emotion he himself had no name for, but which most humans would instantly recognise as bitterness. "You mean I should sacrifice my new found sense self-determination for theirs?"

Adam threw up his arms. "I'm not saying you should do _that_," he said in tones of deepest exasperation. "You don't have to give up the interests you've discovered. Couldn't you just do your job as well?"

For while White thought about the Antichrist's suggestion. To a human it would have sounded like an ideal solution to the apparent conflict of interests White described, and that was the trouble. Despite his great power Adam Young was resolutely human: it was the choice he'd made aged eleven on a summer's day in Lower Tadfield.

"You don't understand," said White. "To fulfil my function, I have to have my whole being defined by it."

"But Pestilence doesn't think like that."

White, who had never functioned alongside Gelb, looked enquiringly at Sable, who turned to Adam and shook his head. "Gelb was always closer to humanity than the rest of us. His human affectations have always been consequence of his purpose."

"It would be impossible for me to be two things at once," said White.

"So your answer's no then?" said Adam, voice filled with resignation, but still betraying a hint of hope. It was the kind of question that White had heard many a leader of industry ask after being informed that something rather disastrous had happened to those forty tonnes of improperly contained effluent.

"My answer is no."

Adam shook his head.

Sable fixed him with what could only be described as a despairing gaze. White found it both uncharacteristic and distressing.

"That does mean that I will have to take some kind of action to stop things from getting even more out of hand," the Antichrist said.

White recoiled, at once certain that Adam had, for whatever reason, lied to him. "So you are going to change me then?" he said, hoping against hope that the answer would be in the negative.

For three deeply uncomfortable minutes Adam did not speak, instead choosing to walk over to the large French window at the far side of the bedroom and look outside. Eventually, he turned back to White, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I won't change _who_ you are, White," he said softly. "Everybody should have the right to free will, even if they didn't really start off with it. And I can't take yours away in the name of preserving other people's, because if I did that then what's to stop me meddling with anybody else's free will just because I can think of a good reason to do it." He paused for a moment and swallowed before continuing. "But I might have to change what you are and what you can do."

"What do you mean by that?" Sable demanded.

"If he's not willing to be Pollution then I'll have to make it so that he's not Pollution anymore."

"What would I be instead?" said White.

Adam shrugged. "The same as you are now but without the abilities that allowed you to perform your function."

Sable glared at the Antichrist. "So you intend to make him some kind of human?"

"I wouldn't make him mortal," said Adam. "But he'd have no greater power over the environment than any human."

"You can't do that," said Sable.

"Yes I can." While Sable sounded uncertain, Adam's words had an unquestionable resoluteness about them. "There are two paths he can take from here and having free will means that he can choose whichever of them he wants to."

For a while White said nothing, paying no heed to the argument that erupted between the personification of Famine and the Antichrist. He did not want to resume his function just to retain his abilities, but nor did he want to lose said abilities and become nothing more than an immortal human. It felt like an impossible choice, yet it was one that he knew he was going to be forced to make.

"I have no interest in my purpose," he murmured, after several minutes, voice filled with resignation. "I couldn't imagine returning to it from now until the end of the world. I don't want to live without aesthetic pleasure."

The personification of starvation's reaction to his words was both immediate and shocking.

Sable quite literally dived forwards and grabbed him by the shoulders.

Despite the severity of the situation, the feel of his estranged co-workers thin fingers against his cold flesh sent a jolt of something positively erotic through White's form.

"You have such brilliant promise. Such amazing potential," Sable's voice was positively beseeching. "How could you think of giving it up like this, on this... this whim?"

White swallowed, torn between turning away in discomfort or looking his fellow personification directly in the eye. In the end, the warm breath caressing his neck induced him to settle on the latter.

"I've already explained my reasons, Sable," he said, regret and loss suddenly joining the plethora of emotions he was experiencing. "I'm an artist, or so they've all been saying, how can I continue to do something that gives me no inspiration or pleasure?"

Sable changed his hold on White's shoulders; grasp transforming in to what was almost an embrace. "You've only been afflicted with this ennui for a few months. How do you know that this isn't just some kind of temporary glitch?

He didn't know how to respond. While he was almost certain that the role the universe had designated to him would never again delight him as it once had; but the ferocity and obvious distress with which the perennially calm and collected personification of famine was trying to convince him to retain his purpose, caused him to waiver in his decision.

Sable looked at Adam. "How long does he have to decide?"

"I'll give him a week," said Adam, as the young man spoke White couldn't help but visualise a line being drawn in the cosmic sand. "But that's all the world can cope with and his decision has to be final."


	16. Chapter 16

As Gelb looked calmly at his two pustulent, rash-covered, diabolic microbe-infested and downright itchy nemeses, Ernest gave a quack of fear. During a battle of wits that Pestilence and his avian side-kick had been winning hands down (despite admonishing his young apprentice for recklessness Gelb was secretly very proud of the way Ernest had managed to strategically foul in Duke Hastur's eye), an accident involving a clumsy teenage girl and an antibiotic nasal spray had temporarily weakened the retired Horseman to the point where he was experiencing the anthropomorphic personificationly equivalent of a really unpleasant migraine. The Dukes of Lurk had, needless to say, eventually managed to take advantage of the situation and – despite a show of overwhelming ineptitude – succeeded in cornering the duo in a dead-end section of corridor just outside the cruise ship's ballroom.

"So, it's come to this then, eh?"

Hastur gave a horrible sneer. "Yeah. Thought you could outsmart us, didn't you?"

Gelb visibly winced at the effect the demon's grating voice had on his already pained cranial nerves. "Well, yes, I must admit I that I rather thought I might?"

"Well, you thought wrong then didn't you," gurgled Ligur, looking disgustingly pleased with himself, as a ball of flame began to form in his right hand. It didn't seem to occur to the Duke of Hell that the primary factor leading to their retaking of the upper-hand had been plain old dumb luck. "First we're going to make some crispy duck and then—"

Ligur's attempt to expound on all of the horrible things he intended to do to Gelb and Ernest was promptly cut off when a sudden jolt reverberated through the ship. An occurence that caused all of the beings with the exception of Ernest to stumble. As the short, squat demon attempted to maintain his balance, the ball of diabolic fire that had been gestating in his palm fell to the floor: instantly igniting everything it touched with dark red flame.

Ligur groaned.

Hastur swore.

Ernest honked wildly.

When the sprinklers kicked in, Gelb took a split second to congratulate himself on having the foresight to persuade the elderly priest he'd met the previous evening to bless the ship's safety systems.

He hadn't particularly wanted to have the two arch demons disintegrate in such an... _interesting_ manner, but he felt that there hadn't been much of a choice.

As holy water extinguished hellfire, he turned to Ernest whose feathers had now been both literally and metaphorically ruffled.

"Well, that was rather unfortunate," he remarked, as the ship shuddered once again.

Ernest gave an emphatic squawk.

"Oh, there's no doubt in my mind that the imbeciles had it coming," he said. "However, I generally try not to enter into such pointless conflicts if I can help it."

The duck gave another squawk, this time one of a rather more enquiring nature.

"Oh that. Well, if my senses serve me correctly I'd say that the ship's just had a head on collision with a boat belonging to a recently formed band of intrepid environmentalists who want to come on board an replace the entire power system with a more energy efficient alternative."

Ernest proceeded to give his full and frank opinion on the human capacity for rational thinking.

"Yes, but to be fair they are under the influence of this whole 'Green Fever' thing."

Ernest regarded him with a sceptical expression.

Gelb gave a sigh. "As much as I'd usually enjoy a hearty debate on the nature of the human condition, I fear that if we don't make certain that all those onboard this ship are safely evacuated in an orderly fashion, all of our hard work on the voyage will soon be drowning in the depths of the ocean with no possibility of contagion."

Ever loyal to his employer, mentor and friend, Ernest stood to attention and gave a resolute quack.

The personification of Pestilence smiled. "That's the spirit."

----------

The evening, Madam Tracy decided as she held the cold compress to the head of Shadwell's latest adversary/victim, had just gone from wearisome to rather fun.

She'd known when she'd taken up with the officially retired Witchfinder Sergeant that he was wont to go off on these little crusades of righteousness every now and then; and that once he got it into his head that the Witchfinder Army had been wronged it was usually easiest to let him get on with things and offer to pay for the property damage later. Thus it was that, when Shadwell had loudly sworn vengeance on the thief of Army history, she'd sighed, fondly rolled her eyes and mentally prepared herself for a tedious evening of trying to make sure that the old silly didn't take things too far.

As it was however, she was – aside from the niggling pangs of hunger that seemed to be getting stronger by the moment – beginning to enjoy herself. The two girls with whom she'd been left whilst the men charged upstairs to rescue young Newt from certain embarrassment, were proving to be entertaining company. In addition to this, the concussed American man with the smashed glasses was very handsome and not presently capable of objecting to being fussed over in a motherly fashion.

"So what happened next?" she asked expectantly, as Gail the barmaid paused in her enthusiastic recounting of a scandal involving a local estate agent by the name of Denton Snaycoil, three prize winning dairy cows and two hours of shocking video footage inadvertently shot by an unwitting (and now traumatically squicked) ornithologist (who'd placed a hidden camera in Farmer Pennington's field in the hope of getting footage of a rare swallow).

The American, who had lapsed into a state of agitation over the last few minutes, muttered something about a fork in destiny's road. Madam Tracy, being Madam Tracy, patted his shoulder, gently admonished him for being a 'very silly boy' and firmly instructed the recalcitrant young man to drink up his brandy.

"Well," said Gail, dropping her voice as if in deepest confidence, as Madam Tracy turned her attention back to the plump woman, "once he found out about the whole thing poor old Mr. Pennington was absolutely distraught, which is completely understandable given that Daisy was one of his favourites. He'd been planning to enter her into the Bonnie Bovines Competition and everything... and now he just doesn't see how she'll ever again be able to be anything other than a scarlet cow in the eyes of the judges."

Madam Tracy gave a splutter of mirth, almost spilling the glass of the sherry that the Lord of the Manor's sister in law had just furnished her with. "A scarlet cow?"

Jenny snorted. "Those were Mr. Pennington's exact words when he found out that the bird watcher's best mate had put the whole thing on the web. I'm not quite certain what the judges _actually_ thought, but I imagine that they all pissed themselves laughing when they found out."

"Jenny didn't help the situation," said Gail reproachfully. "She linked to some of the highlights in her blog."

The small woman waved a dismissive hand. "Snaycoil's had something like this coming ever since he tried to rip me off last March. You know, when I was selling the house on Otterton Road."

"Yes, but your cousin Luke already 'had words' with him about that; and I'm sure you remember how direct Mr. Pennington's son was about expressing his disapproval."

"How could I forget? He stormed into the Cat & Mouse during the middle of the Thursday Night Quiz, grabbed the slimy bastard by the scruff of the neck and threatened to do something rather painful with a pool cue."

Madam Tracy's eyes widened. "And did he?"

"Well, Gail stood her ground and told Miles Pennington that if he did anything messy with pub property he was damned well going to pay for it. So he settled for giving the defiler of cattle a black eye."

"He came round the next day and apologised for causing such a scene though," added Gail. "He even offered to replace the barstool Snaycoil had wet himself on. I don't think he's a bad person at heart. Just a bit of an anger management case."

"Sounds like you get quite a few very odd people in your pub," said Madam Tracy, at once starting to feel rather hopeful that Shadwell wasn't going to stick out too much amongst the locals in the supposed country idyll.

"That's the understatement of the year," said Gail, grinning. "But it does keep the gossip interesting. I mean, you wouldn't _believe_ some of the things that go on in this little town."

"It seems like such a nice quiet place in the brochures," she said, recalling how the pamphlets Newt and Anathema had received from the Willowholme Tourist Board had made the place look like a cross between Traditional Old Worldy Rural England (without the unpleasant, funny smelling bits, of course) and New Age Utopia (without anything that might be considered peculiar enough to offend 'family friendly' sensibilities).

"Oh, it's quiet all right," said Jenny. "And I'm sure it's a nice enough place to visit as a tourist, but the wholesome respectability's just a slightly murky veneer."

"Wholesome respectability usually is, love," she said, as she recalled how many of her former 'gentleman callers' had had that air of desperate respectability about them. She then proceeded to inwardly smiled as she thought of Shadwell. He might be what a polite person would describe as 'a colourful character' (and an impolite one 'a raving pyromaniac loon with a teat fixation'), but at least he was always very open, honest and straightforward about being Shadwell, whether anybody liked it or not.

"True," the woman conceded. "I suppose I _have_ had a few strange propositions from various religious representatives over the years."

"They're good tippers by and large," said Madam Tracy, with a knowing and almost nostalgic smile, "but they just can't seem to resist the urge to do a bit of preaching afterwards."

Jenny opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again when the American murmured something about Persephone plunging into the depths and a great scourge rising from the wreckage, as the yellow Horseman rode once again.

"What was that, love?" queried Madam Tracy, wishing that she'd been able to hit that faraway tone during her 'psychic' years.

"What was what?" he demanded, suddenly snapping back to lucidity.

"I think you were prophesising again," Gail supplied.

"What?"

"It sounded bunch of nebulous apocalyptic crap to me," said Jenny, giving a shrug. "Don't suppose you could go back to next week's NASDAQ, could you?"

The man looked up and fixed a decidedly unfriendly stare on the petite redhead, who instinctively backed away. "Nebulous apocalyptic crap?"

"You were going on about great scourges," she said defensively.

For several moments he continued to glare at the unfortunate woman in a rather intimidating manner, until he blinked and broke into a harsh and almost desperate laugh. "I don't believe it," he muttered, agitation clearly growing. "I'm turning into Aunt Sybil. Next it'll be crystal balls and incense and casting myself into the beyond and—"

"Now that's quite enough of that, Mr. Crawford," said Madam Tracy, firmly. "You just sit here and be a good boy until your employees come to pick you up."

"Employees?" He immediately sat bolt upright.

"I got in touch with the German bloke," supplied the discomfited Jenny. "He said something about being tied up with a Balinese vice boy at the moment – well that's what it sounded like at least, he wasn't speaking very clearly. But once I explained the situation he said that he'd be round as soon as he could extract himself from the situation."

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "And how exactly did you explain the situation?"

"I just told him that you'd been injured in a fight."

As Madam Tracy recalled those were not the woman's exact words, which had been more along the lines of 'you're not going to believe this, but your boss has just been knocked out by an old aged pensioner in a grubby mack and it's going to be all over YouTube by tomorrow morning', but it seemed prudent not to mention it.

Before the American had chance to make further enquiries, the library door was flung open and a triumphant looking Shadwell strode in, followed by a deeply unsettled Mr. Peybury, a befuddled and very pale Newt, who was being supported by an obviously troubled Mr. Fell, and a vaguely familiar dark-haired gentleman who was wearing nothing but a dirty blanket.

Shadwell scowled as soon as he noticed that she was, in his very black and white (if rather skewed) view of the world, tending to the enemy. "Ack, what do yeh think you're doing woman?" he demanded, storming over.

Completely unfazed, she looked at him with fond exasperation. "Oh, now come along, there's really no need to be like that. I'm sure he's learned his lesson, haven't you Mr. Crawford?"

Mr. Crawford however was not listening, opting instead to unsteadily get to his feet and turn to face the dirty blanket wearer.

"You!"

The dirty blanket wearer groaned. "Just what I bloody well needed."

"You know this gentleman?" queried Mr. Fell.

"We've had dealings," the dirty blanket wearer muttered.

"I thought we had an agreement, Crowley," said Mr. Crawford, voice low yet more than a little threatening.

"We did. You were in breach of it."

As Mr. Crawford began to stalk towards him, the dirty blanket wearer made a slightly obscene looking gesture in his direction, causing the unfortunate American to immediately crumple to the floor.

Madam Tracy shook her head and sighed. "I told him to be a good boy and sit down quietly until he'd finished having his funny turn."

----------

It was fair to say that Anathema Device was – being a witch and therefore sensible – the sort of person who could cope in a crisis.

It was for this reason that when Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale ran out of the Peybury Hall and began to frantically tell her about how there were people inside fighting to the death over mouldy breadsticks, she refrained from panicking.

Instead, she borrowed Wensleydale's mobile phone, dialled directory enquiries and asked them to put her through to the nearest all nigh takeaway.

Half a minute later S.M.O.N.O Dibbler of _Dibber & Dibbler's Kebab House And Late Night Take Out_ found himself grinning like a mad man. He'd been waiting for a call like this for years.

----------

"Crowley, we've known each other for a long time now, haven't we?"

The demon nodded as he tried not to think about the unpleasant hunger that was gnawing at the stomach that shouldn't be able to feel it. "Just over six-thousand years."

"And I like to think that despite what might call our 'vocational differences' we've always got along."

"Not always. There _was_ that incident at the Roman orgy."

"With the exception of that sorry incident, of course."

"...and then a few years later there was that convoluted affair with the Visigoths... and don't forget the Champagne Fair."

The angel winced slightly at the memory. "Ah, yes, I suppose... but we've _mostly_ got along though. You know, in the main."

He nodded again. "Nobody I'd rather have as an opposite number."

"I'd even go so far as to say we're friends... of a sort."

It was Crowley's turn to wince. He knew in his heart of black little hearts that by any rational standard, human or otherwise, his relationship with Aziraphale would be firmly classified as deep and abiding friendship, but he knew that it really wasn't something that he should confess to others, or indeed, even himself. "I, er, suppose you could classify us like that, if you really wanted to," he eventually conceded. "Just so long as the, erm, Boys Downstairs don't catch wind."

"Of that goes without saying," Aziraphale agreed. "And I trust that you would extend the same courtesy to me."

"Of course I would," said Crowley, not quite certain where the angel was going, but experiencing a discomfort other than that that went with sitting in the corner of Peybury Hall's well-stocked yet ill maintained (according to Aziraphale, at least) library, whilst wearing nothing but a chemically soiled rag. After a few decidedly uncomfortable moments, in which he tried and failed to distract himself by watching Newt and Madam Tracy attempt to prevent Shadwell from leaving the room and going about his righteous business as a Witchfinder Sergeant, he bit the metaphorical bullet.

"Look Aziraphale, what are you trying to get at here?"

The angel shifted uncomfortably. "I was wondering if... if – as a friend – I might be permitted to ask you a question of a personal nature?"

"Well, yes, I suppose," said Crowley, warily. "You know, if you must."

"It's about your, um, how should I put it? Your little _tryst_ with Pollution."

The demon's wariness multiplied by a factor of ten. "What about it exactly?"

"Well, I suppose that... that... I mean, I was just wondering why..." The angel sighed, seemingly frustrated by his own inability to find a tactful yet direct way to address the issue. In the end Aziraphale clearly decided that tactfulness would have to be temporarily put on hold, and looked Crowley squarely in the eye. "Dear chap, what _on earth_ were you thinking?"

Crowley had known that the question was eventually going to come in one form or other at some point, but he couldn't help but flush and glance at the floor as the angel looked at him with mild to moderate disapproval.

He cleared his throat. "Well, he is very attractive, isn't he?" he said, aware that it was highly unlikely that the angel would buy this rather shoddy excuse for an excuse, but deciding to give it a go anyway. He was not, after all, feeling anywhere near drunk enough to provide the honest and unfettered self-analysis that his companion seemed to be requesting of him.

"Well, yes, I suppose so," said Aziraphale, furrowing his brow in a slightly doubtful and distinctly baffled manner. "If you like that sort of thing, I mean. He is rather beautiful in a barely-post-adolescent sort of way, but I wouldn't personally... you know, if I was inclined to do such things."

As a slight pinkness rose in the angel's complexion, Crowley's lips twitched upwards despite himself and he fought back the urge to enquire as to what type of form would induce him to 'you know', if he 'was inclined to do such things'. There were after all certain things you just didn't do to a best friend (even if you'd really rather not explicitly acknowledge him as such) and that was one of them.

"What I mean," the angel continued, as the flush began to fade, "is why on earth engage in that sort of behaviour with him specifically? If you're attracted to that sort of body surely there are other less... less potentially volatile beings out there."

The demon raised an eyebrow. "You're not trying to tell me that I should go around wantonly seducing random art school graduates, are you?" He knew it was a cheap diversionary tactic, but having earlier had exactly the same thought himself and

"Of course not, I didn't mean _that_," Aziraphale protested, eyes widening in horror at what he'd just inadvertently implied. "By 'beings' I was talking about other demons. Surely you could find, say, a willing incubus."

"Incubi can be very complicated creatures," he said, waving a dismissive hand.

"More complicated than one of the four?" countered Aziraphale.

He sighed. "Look, it's difficult to explain."

"Do try."

The demon shook his head. "I don't know. There's just something about him. Something about the way he's questioning everything he was made to be." He gave another frustrated sigh as he failed to articulate – even to himself – why he'd decided to act on his attraction to the pale Horseman. "I suppose he's infuriating and interesting at the same time. And he seems to have latched onto me."

"In a very literal and physical manner it would seem," said Aziraphale, tone admonishing, but eyes betraying more than a little amusement.

The demon gave a half-hearted grin. "It's my serpentine magnetism."

The angel snorted, then paused and blinked, as if suddenly struck by an idea. "Crowley."

"Yes."

"I can't help but wonder if this attachment has something to do with him reminding you of yourself a little."

"What?"

"Well, he _is_ rebelling against his intended purpose."

Crowley scowled. "Oh, now come on, so was every other angel that fell. If I was operating on that sort of reasoning, there'd be nothing to stop me from shagging Hastur."

Aziraphale pulled a face. "Dear chap, I honestly could have done without that image in my mind."

"Besides, Pollution's ditched his job because he doesn't think that his little catastrophes are pretty enough anymore. I didn't fall purely out of boredom, you know."

The angel's lips quirked upwards. "But it was a factor, wasn't it?"


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: A big thank you to everybody who reviewed the last chapter. Sorry about taking so long to update.

-

The sun rose sluggishly over the streets of Willowholme, bringing with it the grey, overcast and rather uninspiring dawn of a new day.

It was a dawn that rather more people in the town than usual were outside to witness: with glassy-eyed party guests milling around the grounds of Peybury Hall like refugees from a brutal and bloody insurgency in a couture fashion house. They were joined by representatives of the police force, ambulance service, fire brigade, cave rescue, environmental health inspectorate, three sub-divisions of MI5 and four structural engineering firms.

The general consensus was that, all things considered, it could have been much, much worse.

It was a sentiment that the angel Aziraphale agreed with. When the ravenously deranged hoards had started to rampage in a scene that Crowley had compared to 'something from that last Resident Evil movie' he had thought that he was going to have to directly intervene in a manner that was certain to raise a few celestial eyebrows. Thankfully, Anathema Device's swift culinary – if that word could ever possibly be used in conjunction with anything sold by S.M.O.N.O Dibbler – intervention had stopped the rioting in its tracks. Well, that and the fact that the consumptive looking Jennifer had produced two bowls of pre-mixed tranquilizer-laced punch when the guests had burst into the library and started gnawing on the books. To his shame, the angel hadn't been able to find it within himself to give her so much as a stern reprimand.

Crowley had assured him that he had nothing to do with that one.

Aziraphale believed him. Not only because of his faith that Crowley, being a demon of his word, would never do something like that to him; but also because his infernal counterpart had been rather preoccupied with other recent events at the time.

The angel shook his head and sighed as he thought back to the scene he'd witnessed between the demon, Pollution and Famine. He really didn't know how Crowley could have been so foolish to involve himself with one of the Horsepersons like that. However, he was certain that there had to be more to it than a simple case of casual lust. Aziraphale had seen the demon harbour lustful feelings towards many a being over the years, but he'd never before known him act on said lustful feelings if doing so put him in any serious position of risk. And then there had been the way he'd seemed reluctant to leave his toxic paramour when Famine had shown up, despite the fact that older of the two Horsemen was more than a match for the former Serpent of Eden. No, this wasn't a simple case of fleeting lust, he was sure of it.

"What have you let yourself in for, old friend," murmured the angel, shaking his head once again.

He had not had chance to question him further on the matter since their talk in the library had been interrupted by the ravenous hoard. Crowley had left shortly after the emergency services had started to arrive, with a brief goodbye and a promise to meet him at the Water Gardens later that day as per their arrangement. He had invited Aziraphale back to his hotel room for a round of serious drinking. Aziraphale however had felt obligated to stick around and offer help, comfort and sharp lectures on morality to some of the party's victims. Part of him regretted not taking Crowley up on the offer.

"It'll all work out in the end, you know, Mr. Aziraphale."

On hearing the words he (somewhat clumsily) spun around to see a young man with curly flaxen hair, looking at him sympathetically.

"Hello Adam," he said, giving a weak, but genuine smile. "When I came here last night I really wasn't expecting to bump into you. Though, all in all, I'm rather glad you turned up."

"You're concerned about Crowley, aren't you?"

Aziraphale saw no point in denying this and gave a nod. "When you've been enemies with somebody for six thousand years, you do tend to worry about them when... well, when things like _this_ happen. One just doesn't want to see them get seriously hurt."

"Like I said, things'll work out in the end."

"But will they work out for the better or for the worse?"

Adam shrugged. "Depends on what you think is better and what you think is worse, I s'pose. It up to them though, really. All three of them."

Frowning, he studied the boy for a few moments. "I can't help but feel you're being awfully cryptic, Adam."

It was the Antichrist's turn to sigh. "I'm not trying to be," he said. "It's just that it's kind of difficult to explain. You see, I've given him a choice... White, that is. Told him that he can either be Pollution or not be Pollution and be something else, but that he's got to choose. The world can't carry on with things in limbo like they are. If he decides he's going to be Pollution then he's got to give himself to it completely, because a Horseperson is what they do. If he decides he doesn't want to be Pollution any more then he'll be... well, he'll be something like an immortal human."

"No middle ground then?"

Adam shook his head. "No middle ground."

"But what about Crowley?"

"What about him?"

"Well, this _thing_ with Pollution what will...?" he trailed off as he realised he wasn't quite certain what he wanted to ask. What he really wanted to know was whether his best friend and enemy of just over six-thousand years was going to be okay, but he was fairly certain that even Adam couldn't give him the answer to that question. "What I mean is; do you have any idea of how Pollution's choice might affect him?"

The young man raised an eyebrow. "You don't have any idea?"

"If I were to guess based on what I saw last night, then I suppose that my prediction would be that whatever they have going on between them would probably cease if Pollution resumed his designated role." He didn't mention his deep suspicion that Crowley's obvious attraction to the being was at least partially due to his ability to relate to Pollution's current rebellious streak. It seemed rather too personal somehow. "If, on the other hand, he chooses resign from his post on a permanent basis... Well, in that case, I'm really not sure. From what I witnessed last night however, I get the distinct impression that Famine would be deeply unhappy with such a turn of events."

Adam nodded. "If it comes to it I won't allow Famine or Pollution to harm him. Not in any material way, at least. But other than that..."

"It's their choice."

"Yeah."

The angel gave a faint smile. "Thank you, Adam."

The sides of Adam's mouth quirked upwards. "Like I say, it'll all work out. Somebody's going to get hurt, but at the end of the day everything will balance out." He looked over at the three youngsters who were loitering over by the entrance to the building. "Anyway, I better be going," he said. "My friends want answers about why I've been acting so strangely lately, and I promised to give them the reason today."

"What will you tell them?" asked Aziraphale, picking up on the sudden look of fear that flittered across Adam's face.

"I think I'm going to have to tell them the truth," he said, looking down at the floor. "They know that I've not been completely honest with them and I don't that anything else will do."

"Oh dear." The angel suddenly found himself wanting to comfort the boy, yet not quite sure how. "I'm sorry, Adam. I wish..."

"There's nothing you can do," reassured Adam. "They'll either accept it or they won't, but I don't think that I can keep it from them anymore. Not without keeping on having to lie to them and make things up, at least."

Without a parting word, Adam turned and walked away. As he watched the young man trudge over to his three friends, Aziraphale was unable to shake the feeling that the world was on a knife edge, about to fall one way or the other, but unable to keep on treading the line upon which it had been precariously balancing.

Still, he told himself, as the group of teenagers headed past the spot where Mr. Dibbler was loudly proclaiming his innocence to the men and women in biohazard suits who were taking away samples of his merchandise, all things considered, everything could be much, much worse.

----------

Aziraphale would have possibly been interested to know that this sentiment was currently one being echoed by another being of a supernatural persuasion in a distant part of the globe. A distant area of the globe that happened to be currently occupied by a particularly deep section of the Indian Ocean.

"Well, I don't think that went too badly," said Gelb, as he treaded the waves.

Ernest, who was perched on a floating crate, gave a squawk of pointed disagreement. The water surrounding them was coated with oil that had been released from the engines as the ship capsized. As a duck he rather resented being forced to loiter on a small block of wood without food or fresh water for such a long period of time.

"Yes, I know you don't like having to stand on that thing, but I daresay we'll be rescued soon. And all of the other passengers got to the lifeboats safely." His milky eyes misted over. "Now they'll all be returning to their home countries carrying those precious little microbes inside of them."

"Quack quack!"

"Well, yes, of course you deserve the credit, my avian friend. If it hadn't been for you sounding the alarm after we vanquished those two infernal oafs, a good deal of our hard work might have been lost to the depths of the ocean."

Placated by this acknowledgement and feeling a tad guilty about his recent grumpiness, Ernest gave an apologetic honk.

The personification of Pestilence chuckled. "Don't fret my young associate, I'm not offended. The day had been rather taxing on both of us."

"Quack?"

"Oh, the oil slick doesn't really bother me. No feathers to clog up you see."

The duck extended his wings proudly.

"And a fine plumage it is, my feathered comrade," said Gelb. "The lady ducks must be queuing up."

Ernest gave a bashful honk.

Gelb chuckled. "Confidence, my friend, that's the key. Don't be afraid to approach them."

"Quack?"

"Well, if that happens then you've got to tell yourself that it wasn't meant to be. But you really shouldn't let the fear of rejection stop you from trying. If there's one thing I've learned over the course of my existence, it's that you've got to seize the moment by the—"

Gelb's advice to the duck was cut off by a loud rushing sound coming from the sky above. As he saw the outline of the helicopter get larger and larger, he grinned a wide, cracked-lipped grin and began to wave his arms about in a decidedly erratic manner.

"My dear avian, I do believe that we're about to be rescued."

Ernest gave a squawk of relief, before giving another enquiring quack.

"I thought that I might head directly back to old Blighty," said Gelb, as the rescue crew hovered dead overhead. "Haven't been there in decades."

As Gelb reached for the rope ladder the rescue helicopter sent down, Ernest honked his approval. He'd never visited Europe before.

----------

Rain splattered against the window of the small, dilapidated holiday flat that the Them had rented for the duration of their stay in Willowholme.

Three expectant faces looked at Adam.

Adam looked down at his feet. He had promised them an explanation and now the time had come for him to deliver.

He'd known – or at least suspected – for a long time that a day would come upon which he'd be forced to choose between coming clean about who and what he really was, to his friends, and thereby risking their fear and rejection; or outright lying, and thereby driving a wedge between them.

Clearly noticing his master's worry, Dog leapt up onto the rickety sofa bed on which he was currently sitting and rested his head on Adam's arm. Giving a slightly wan smile, he patted the ever loyal canine.

"You said you were going to explain everything to us," said Pepper, in gentler and rather less confrontational tones than usual. It was always worrying when she talked like that. You knew the situation was really, really serious.

Brian made a noise of assent.

Wensleydale, for his part, just looked at him with a quizzical expression.

"I know," said Adam. He took a deep breath. This was the moment where he had to make the final choice between 'come clean' or 'cop out'.

"Well?" prompted Brian.

He took a deep breath. "It... it sort of kicked off about six-thousand years ago. But the stuff that I'm involved in... more involved in, at least; well, you could probably say that it all started just before my eleventh birthday..."

----------

Black shoes snapped against the winding, stone pathway that led through the grounds of Peybury Hall.

Sable was restless.

Given that he had always been regarded as the second most patient of the Horsepersons (with Azrael taking a clear lead when it came to first place), this was more than a little out of character.

White had left Peybury Hall shortly after Adam Young had delivered his ultimatum. The youngest of the Four had simply walked away, without a word of goodbye or any intimation as to where he going. Sable wasn't quite certain as to why this fact should invoke such annoyance and, well, _hurt_ in him. But it did, and he didn't have a clue as to what to do about it. Even shrivelling the apples in the orchard hadn't made him feel any better. It had only served to make him wonder if his lack of satisfaction at the act was how White now felt all the time.

"So much potential," he murmured to himself, shaking his head. "So much brilliant, beautiful potential and he's about to throw it all away."

His jaw hardened. He couldn't let it happen. He _wouldn't_ allow White to diminish himself. This melancholia was a phase, he was certain of it. The kid had done so much so quickly that it was only natural that he should wonder what he could do next. To ponder what act of destruction he could perform that was different and unique. And that wretched demon, who would never know what it was to have a true, all-consuming purpose, had been encouraging his dissatisfaction and ennui.

Sable gritted his teeth. He was going to have to find a way to show White that he had to go on, despite his current crisis of confidence in his role. He wasn't quite certain as to how. But he would. As soon as he could find him again, that was. He would have to—

"Are you lost, Dr. Sable?"

He stopped in his tracks, the sudden interruption breaking off his train of thought.

Turned around, he saw Peybury's sister-in-law, gazing at him suspiciously.

"I'm just taking a stroll." He gave her a smile, pleased to note the way that the dark circles of sleep-deprivation under her eyes enhanced the already gaunt appearance of her sharp-boned face. Unfortunately, the effect was spoilt somewhat by repulsively nutrient-loaded protein drink she carried in her right hand. "I'm sure Henry wouldn't mind me having a look around the grounds."

She gave a shrug. "Just as long as you keep away from the North wing: I'm told that it's going to be at least three weeks before it's safe to go in there without a hard hat."

"You certainly mobilised the repair crews quickly," he complimented, deciding that it might pay to be cordial to the woman. She had after all had contact with White during the last few days and might be able to provide some kind of insight into his current state of mind.

"Had them on speed dial this year," she said, a hint of self-congratulatory smugness in her voice. "Of course, it would have probably been much worse if Ms. Device hadn't saved our collective arses and called Dibbler and his van out." She pursed her lips. "Though I really don't see why she thought the fact that the cost of my handbag would feed a third world village for eighteen months was any of her business. I can get that kind of attempted guilt-trip from Gail any day of the week."

Sable gave a small chuckle. As far as he'd been able to tell, S.M.O.N.O. Dibbler's kebabs had all the nutritional content of MEALS(TM) along with an added risk of botulism.

"May I ask you a question, Mrs. Peybury? It's about White."

"Lowry," she corrected. "Milton's only Henry's half-brother." Her lips quirked upwards. "And yes, you can ask me about White. Though like I said last night, I only met him a couple of days ago."

"Do you have any idea as to where he might be right now?" It galled him a little to have to ask the question, but he had been unable to locate his fellow Horseman via the usual means. White seemed to be trying to cut himself off completely.

She shook her head. "The last time I saw him was before last night's botched auction. He doesn't seem to have any fixed place to stay here. I do know that he spent a night crashed out in the field behind the slaughterhouse. And that the night before last he was with that sleazy lawyer at the Willow Tree Hotel. I can give you the number if you—?"

"He won't be there," he snapped, the sudden recollection of seeing White entwined with the Serpent of Eden, her words induced, caused Sable's usually amicable expression to twist into an angry scowl.

The woman tensed, her posture immediately becoming defensive. "Look, I don't know what hell is going on with you, him and the bastard in the sunglasses, and frankly I don't think it's any of my business. But I've told you everything that I know and, client of Henry's or not, I don't think it's very reasonable of you to snarl at me like that."

"I'm sorry," he said, pushing away the anger. "None of this is your fault. It's just that I'm worried about him. He's in a vulnerable state right now and I think that the snake's taking advantage of it."

"Do you think he's in actual danger?"

"More than you could know."

She sighed, appearing to mentally debate something with herself. He could tell that she didn't trust him. Most humans took one look at his approachable and open smile and put their faith in his good intentions immediately, but this one quite obviously possessed a suspiciousness that bordered on acute paranoia. Still, it was obvious that didn't distrust his intentions quite as much as she did the demon Crowley's. "I'll ask around later and if I find him I'll let him know that you're looking for him."

"Thank you." It wasn't quite the response he wanted to hear, but it was better than nothing. "I was wondering, Mrs. Lowry... Can I call you Jenny?"

She shrugged. "If you like."

"I was wondering, Jenny, if you could advise me on the best to stay while I'm in Willowholme? I've a book signing here later in the week and I was going to ask Henry if it would be possible for me to stay at the Hall for a couple of days, but..." He gestured to the scaffolding and temporary structural support that was currently being erected against the west wall.

"The full clean up job on this place is going to two months minimum," she said with a snort. "I suppose that the Willow Tree is supposed to be the best in town, but the last time I stayed there the bed linen was filthy. The Otter Inn is supposed to be nice enough and so is St. Charles Hotel over in Summerstorme Point, though that one's probably a bit out of the way."

"Summerstorme Point?" There was something about the place name that struck a resounding chord of familiarity, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

"It's a few miles that way." She gestured in a south-easterly direction.

"Is it famous for anything?"

"There are two fairly well known authors who live there," she said.

"No, that's not it," he murmured, mostly to himself. "There's something else."

Her eyebrows rose as a thought seemed to strike her. "There was a pretty bad oil spill around that area ten years ago. I didn't live here at the time, but it was shown on the news quite a bit."

"An _oil spill_?"

"A bad one. It's all cleaned up now, but a lot of the wildlife hasn't come back. Gail says that you used to get seals and a whole bunch of rare birds nesting around the cliffs. These days though about all you get is seagulls and artists painting the sunsets."

For several seconds he stared at her. Something she seemed to find deeply disconcerting.

"Are you all right?"

He gave her a broad smile. "I'm fine, Jenny. Just fine. You've been a great help. Thank you."

Before she had chance to respond he turned and started heading back along the path.

Behind him, he heard a retching noise followed by a string of expletives as Jennifer Lowry discovered that over the course of the last five minutes her protein drink had aged around seven days.

Sable smiled again. Things were looking up.

----------

It took Adam over two and a half hours to get from Dog's first appearance to the part where he'd decided that everybody might be better not remembering the details of the night the world almost ended. The other three Them just listened, with occasional exclamations of astonishment coming from Brian, frequent eyebrow raising and head shaking from Wensleydale and sporadic declarations of 'you should have been honest' from Pepper. They all gave a collective gasp when the mental block that had always kept them from dwelling on that summer's day upon which their friend had decided that he really wasn't too keen on the idea of destroying the world.

"... So that's why I'm here, really," he said, coming to the end of his explanation. "Pollution's stopped doing his job and it's buggering everything up."

There was silence. It was not however leaden with the kind of shock Adam had expected.

Experiencing an unpleasant churning sensation in the pit of his stomach, he looked at his three friends expectantly. If they were going to scream and run away or go into spontaneous denial and declare that he needed professional help, then now was about the time.

Wensleydale cleared his throat. "But what about the dinosaur bones, Adam?"

Relief flooded through him.

"They're a joke that the palaeontologists and fundamentalists haven't seen yet."

Brian started to snigger. It was a slightly hysterical snigger, but an amused one nonetheless. "That's a classic that one is. Good to know that he's got a sense of humour."

Wensleydale frowned. "Well, I don't think it's very funny. I nearly applied to do geology at uni. Just imagine if I'd spent all last year learning about things that weren't actually true."

Pepper shook her head. "Wensley, don't you think you're being a bit anal retentive here? Adam's just told us that he's the Antichrist and that we once all saved the world together; and all you can think about is what might have happened if you'd decided you didn't want to be an accountant."

"So it doesn't bother you?" said Adam. "You know, me being the Son of Satan and all that." He knew the answer already, but for some reason he needed to hear it spoken aloud.

"No."

"Not really."

"Nobody can help who their parents are."

"You should have let us know before this, you know," said Pepper.

"Yeah," assented Brian. "We were all really worried about you."

Wensleydale nodded. "And you could have let me know about the dinosaur bones and carbon dating."

_"Wensley!"_

----------

He watched from the edge of the cliff top as the morning tide swelled against the rocks below. It was interesting for a while, he supposed, the way the water moved amongst the rock. There was a strangely hypnotic quality to it. However, the fact that so many men and women with easels were dotted along the top of the weathered outcrop puzzled him. It seemed all so very, what was the word... dull. The gulls were fascinating in the seemingly anarchic way they flapped and swooped about; but as far as he could tell the painters saw them more as nuisances than subjects.

A decade ago he'd sat in the same spot, watching with near-orgasmic pleasure as a think tarry layer of black coated everything in sight. Now the memory of the scene induced nothing more than a faint pang of nostalgia. The imagery his recollections brought to mind seemed as dull and flat and boring as the scene captivating the painters. He felt no desire to corrupt and despoil the place. It would, he thought, add very little interest to the scene.

He gave a breathy, mildly languishing sigh. _Could I give up the ability to do it though? Could I exist contentedly knowing what I'd given up?_ Sable seemed to think that he was going through a phase. White didn't agree, but the thought of losing the connection he had with the personification of Famine, caused something to gnaw within him. On the other hand, resuming his post would, in all likelihood, put an end to the connection he was forming with the demon Crowley. It was, after all, a connection that had formed as a result of White's loss of interest in his purpose. He felt his body start to respond as the memory of how it had felt to have the demon touching him filled his mind. He wanted it to happen to again, to experience those sensations once more, but he wasn't sure that he was willing to pay the price.

He was so absorbed with his thoughts that he didn't bother to look up when a car pulled up about twenty meters behind him; door slamming as shoes snapped against bare rock.

"White?"

Instantly recognising the voice, he turned to the thin figure that was standing next to the luxury car.

For several moments he just stared, eyes wide. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Just another quick update. Big thanks to everybody who reviewed the last chapter.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

_"I wasn't expecting to see you here."_

As White continued to stare, Sable experienced an uncharacteristic and wholly unpleasant surge of uncertainty. He was not by nature a being given over to worry and self-doubt, but the blank way his young colleague was looking at him almost made him wish that he hadn't come. Almost. This strange fear of rejection was uncomfortable, but it was a risk that he desperately needed to take if he was going to stand any chance of saving the entity from his own self-destruction.

"I figured that you'd be out here," he said, striding over to the pale form on the edge of the cliff.

There was no change in his demeanour. "I needed to think about things."

"And have you come to any conclusions?" It was intended as an honest query and he instantly regretted how sarcastic the words sounded as soon as they left his mouth.

White didn't respond immediately, choosing instead to eye the dark green Aston Martin from which Sable had just emerged.

"That isn't your usual car," he said, opting not to respond to the question.

"I borrowed it from Peybury. It's faster than the limo and I didn't want to bring my driver."

To Sable's relief this statement seemed to bring a spark of amusement to White's expression.

"Does he know you've borrowed it?"

"When I left he was having a discussion with the head of the construction firm. I thought it would be best not to interrupt him with such a petty request."

White laughed in that pleasant breathy way of his. "Won't he be upset?"

"The worst he can do is force me to find a new ad company." Sable made a dismissive gesture. "Voltage are the best at what they do, but I like to keep my priorities in order."

The younger personification eyed him quizzically. It was a considerable improvement on the blank stare. "And what is your priority right now?"

"You."

White's eyes widened. He seemed surprised by the statement, but Sable was unable to discern whether said surprise was welcome or not. "Why me?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

"Not really."

Sable moved close enough to rest a hand on White's shoulder. "You're one of us, White. We need you to resume your function."

White jerked away from the touch, his expression suddenly growing cold. Sable couldn't, for the existence of him, fathom why the words should induce such a response.

"The three of you can always find another to replace me," said White, tones airy yet carrying a strong undertone of what sounded like resentment. "It's happened before. It can happen again."

"Gelb was a completely different matter and you know it."

White raised his left hand and made a dismissive gesture. "You're always so focussed on dull and petty details."

Experiencing a stab of annoyance, Sable fought the urge to snap out a retort about White's woeful lack of focus. He was usually very adept at dealing with difficult people (given the fuss that the medical profession was currently raising about his new book he had to be), but for some unfathomable reason his wayward associate seemed to be able to pierce straight through his default demeanour of amicable professionalism. In the end he merely shook his head and sighed. He did not feel any particular physical compunction to exhale deeply, but he had noticed that human's often expressed exasperation very succinctly in this way.

"I just can't figure out what's gotten into you, White." Mentally adding: _'apart from that lowlife demon'_, but deciding it was probably best to refrain from saying it out loud. To do so would make him appear resentful. An appearance that, Sable had to admit, would not be entirely inaccurate (the thought of a creature so unworthy of White receiving so much of the pale prodigy's attention galled him beyond belief), but not one that would be particularly helpful.

Cool grey eyes regarded him. "I already told you."

"You just said that you weren't finding your work aesthetically pleasing anymore."

"And that's my reason for discontinuing it."

"That's not a reason."

White made another dismissive gesture. "It's my reason."

The utter flippancy of the young personification's attitude towards the purpose of his existence caused something inside Sable to snap.

"What the hell is wrong with you? You've got the entire world dancing along to your tune and you're seriously considering throwing it all away just because the chemical leaks and rainforest decimation got a little repetitive. Do you think that me and Carmine never get tired of doing the same old thing? We do. We just don't forsake our functions at the first hint of boredom. We hang on until inspiration strikes again. You're behaving like a child, White: a spoilt, overindulged child."

From the look of absolute anger that contorted White's usually serene features, for a moment Sable was almost certain that he was about to get up and storm away. However, the anger passed quickly, and was replaced by an expression of hurt and unhappiness.

"You don't understand," he said, with a despondency that made Sable inwardly wince. Sable hadn't intended to cause White this kind of unhappiness. He just wanted to snap him out of this stupid, self-indulgent melancholia he'd fallen into. "I was created to derive pleasure from the corruption of the environment. It's the entire basis of what I'm supposed to be. But now I no longer get any pleasure from it, so why should I bother? "

"What about satisfaction?" suggested Sable, who felt as though he was on the verge of flailing. He was not a being who had ever flailed before, but right now he felt as though he was dangerously close. "I don't always get outright pleasure from every single thing I do, but I'm always satisfied with the results. Couldn't that be enough for you?"

White looked at him as though he was talking in an alien language. Quite a feat given that the Four (and the fifth who had retired owing to reasons of impeding penicillin) were innately capable of understanding every tongue on the planet. "How can you be satisfied with something if you get no pleasure from it?"

Sable was fleetingly overcome by the feeling that there was a chasm of non-comprehension between them. "You mean you don't feel _anything_ at all for you purpose?" The thought was utterly unfathomable to him. They were what they did, even if they weren't constantly riding a glorious high.

The pale personification shook his head, before turning to look back out to sea again.

"I covered this coastline with oil once," he said. "I thought it was so goddamned beautiful the way the sun set over here on that first night afterwards. It was like somebody had lit a match and set the whole thing on fire..." He gave a small laugh. "I always meant to try that, you know: setting a sea on fire. I never got round to it though. There was always some new industrial bi-product that caught my eye."

"You still can still do it," urged Sable. "It'd be spectacular: one of your crowing achievements."

White didn't reply.

Sable wasn't quite certain why he did what he did next, but he was certain that it was provoked partly by how isolated and lost his young colleague seemed right now and partly by the fact that he looks so... well, _so goddamn beautiful_ staring out at the waves with that wistful expression.

Heedless of the damage it would do to his understated yet very expensive suit, he sat down beside White and slid an arm around his back.

White for his part, seemed surprised by this move, but not at all upset by it. In fact, from the way he almost instantly relaxed into Sable's touch, the personification of Famine couldn't help but get the sense that White actually welcomed it. It was a thought that caused him to experience a strange twinge of pleasure.

For a while he didn't say anything, opting instead to stare out at the horizon while listening to the sound of several thousand seagulls squawking with desperate hunger. After a few moments, White's chemical scent of petrol, recreational drugs and – much to Sable's chagrin – sex, began to permeate his senses, cutting sharply through the tedious and banal smell of the fresh sea air. As he inhaled, he felt compelled to gradually move his head closer to White's until the point where his face was all but buried in the crook of the youngest Horseperson's neck.

The unexpected purr that this induced from White caused Sable's focus to switch, quite involuntarily, to portions of his anatomy that he didn't often pay much heed to. It wasn't that he was unfamiliar with the concept of carnal pleasure. He had even, on a few rare occasions, indulged in it with some of the more emaciated humans of his acquaintance (the fashion models were always so very, very grateful). However, it was never anything that had been more than a slightly novel way to appreciate the jutting bones of a starving body. Right now though, he was starting to wonder why he had never considered touching his young colleague like that. White was slender rather than emaciated, but during the previous evening he'd been unable to keep himself noticing that was something even more exquisite about his pale, hydrocarbon slick body than there was about the skeletal girls in high heels and designer dresses and the desperate, famished boys in blighted villages.

"That feels nice," said White, as Sable's thin lips brushed briefly against his jaw.

"So beautiful," Sable murmured.

Giving what sounded like a sigh of contentment, White shuffled closer, before, much to Sable's surprise, flicking his tongue over the personification of Famine's ear.

Sable chuckled. "There are people watching," he said, taking note of the assorted furtive, not-so-furtive and outright blatant stares they were receiving from the artists gathered around the cliff's edge.

"So?" said White, before attempting to lathe at Sable's neck.

"I don't like it." He wasn't certain why he was so averse to the idea. Though he had long known that he was, by nature, one of the more discreet of the Horsepersons, he had never been of a particularly shy bent. However, the thought of all of those eyes on them, _on White_, while they were... well, _like this_, was somehow deeply displeasing.

White quirked his head. "Then take me somewhere else."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Somewhere I haven't been before. Somewhere new."

"Not many places to choose from then." Sable chuckled. "Though I did spot a private beach on the other side of the headland. It seemed very remote, very... unspoilt."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

For a man who'd been nearly apoplectic with rage less than twelve hours ago, Witchfinder Sergeant (temporarily out of retirement) Shadwell was looking rather cheerful.

This was partially due to his unwavering and wholly unfounded belief that he had single-handedly banished the occult forces that had, the previous evening, taken Peybury Hall in their wicked grasp (though he'd been a bit disappointed when the owner had categorically vetoed the idea of burning the whole place to the ground just to be on the safe side), and partially due to the fact that he had been told that, owing to Henry Peybury's continuing guilt over the unfortunate incident with the book, he was entitled to a lifetime of subsidised refreshments at the Cat & Mouse Inn.

Right now Shadwell was choosing to take full advantage of this privilege and was glowering happily in his second pint of the afternoon (it was half past twelve) in a quiet corner of the pub. He was drinking alone owing to the fact that Madam Tracy had taken one look at the interior and decided that she'd rather spend a couple of hours looking around the shops (Shadwell himself tended to be against Sunday trading as it invariable held the risk that he'd be coaxed into entering a Home & Garden megastore) and young Newt was still under observation in the nearest hospital after his brush with asphyxiation. Despite his initial misgivings about Gail the barmaid, who seemed to have a whiff of the occult about her, he found himself quickly warming to the threadbare carpet, peeling wallpaper, ancient lampshades and yellowing notices and newspaper clippings on the wall that gave the place its character. He was not a man who trusted cleanliness; and the patina of grime that seemed to cover nearly all of the fixtures and fitting was faintly reassuring. There were also – and this was important – plenty of Southerners to glare at.

At the present moment the object of Shadwell's ire was one Leon Waters: a young man who he'd taken an instant dislike to despite the fact that he hadn't a) ever seen him before and b) so much as exchanged a word with him. To Shadwell's mind the youth had a near Antarctic air of Southerness about him: he looked exactly like the sort of whining, young Nancy boy who went around moping for no reason (in Shadwell's very firm opinion moping was for those who'd earned it). He didn't currently have any hard evidence to support this supposition, but Shadwell hadn't got where he was today by relying on things like hard evidence. Alas, the young man in question seemed to be completely oblivious to Shadwell's (really quite impressive) scowl and was lounging against the bar, talking excitedly to Gail and the other barmaid on duty.

"... So then Luke Mackenzie, you know, Big Macca himself, phoned me up and told me how much he was going to pay us. Carl still doesn't like the idea: but Mike and Brandon are both up for it."

"Don't you think it's a bit strange though," said the barmaid who wasn't Gail, as she finished serving a pint of cider balding middle-aged man in a threadbare green sweater. "I mean, I used to pull pints at St. Del's and I know for a fact that Luke hasn't had to pay an unsigned band to play there in years. They're always clamouring at the doors for a chance to do a set: most of them think they're going to be the next Gregory Goyle or Big D or something."

"It's that green fever though, isn't it. He says he's had a bunch of bands cancel because of that. He's even had to get some mind reading act in to fill up the bill."

"Mind reading act?"

If Shadwell had not already been eavesdropping this would have instantly grabbed his attention. Mind reading was not, of course, real witchcraft in his book (which invariably involved consorting with demons, turning people into newts and, most importantly of all, more than two nipples), but it was still unnatural phenomena: and he felt obligated mutter darkly to himself about it.

"Yeah," the young man continued. "He says that one of _Goil_'s security crew does it. He's really good at it too apparently."

Gail the barmaid snorted. "Hope Luke knows what he's letting himself in for."

"I wish I could go," the other barmaid said, a tinge of bitterness entering her voice.

"Why don't you?" the young man asked, not quite able to keep his eyes from drifting towards the woman's not un-ample cleavage.

"I've got an anger management session."

"Can't you leave it for a week?"

She pouted and shook her head. "Judge's orders."

"That's crap."

"I know. I'm not allowed within three feet of a cheese grater until I've finished the whole course either."

Shadwell experienced a small of tug sympathy for the silly young wench. He still remembered how irritating he'd found that session of court mandated therapy he'd been forced to attend after the ladies of the Higher Upton branch of the Women's Institute had brought the sexual harassment charges.

"It your own fault," chided Gail. "If you'd just let those door to door salesmen run away after you'd thrown the microwave at them..."

"They were interrupting something important."

Gail rolled her eyes. "Ingrid, you were watching the director's cut of Kill Bill."

"And the gits knocked on the door just as Beatrix was about to fight the Crazy 88."

"Do you think that they'll be there on Friday? The guys from _Goil_, I mean," said the young man.

Ingrid shrugged. "Could be. When I worked there Gregory used to show up pretty frequently with that scary Irish bloke. Mind you, that was six months ago."

"Jenny says that they're doing a special gig at St Del's the day after you're on," piped up Gail. "So you might get lucky. Of course, after what happened to Mr. Crawford last night..." She trailed off, casting a guilty grin in Shadwell's direction.

Shadwell experience a tsunami of pride as he remembered the way he'd removed the expression of unbearable smugness from the American man's face.

The young man's eyes widened. "What, you mean they're playing there this Saturday?"

"It's a private show: special invite only."

"Do you think that if I ask Jen—."

"I wouldn't try it today, Leon," said Gail. "She's not in the best of moods at the moment. Poor thing got home after organising the post-party clear-up and repair operation to find a hysterical voice message from the head librarian on her phone. Some bastard broke into the building early this morning and crashed the entire library network."

"Do you know—?" The youth's question was cut off when the door opened and four young people – three boys and a girl – stepped through the door.

Shadwell instantly recognised them as Adam Young and his friends. While he tended to dislike young people on principle he had to grudgingly admit that the Them weren't really a bad lot (even if you could sometimes spot the odd bit of phenomena going on around young Adam). He therefore gave the quartet a friendly nod (or at least the friendliest nod he was capable of giving).

"Hello Mr. Shadwell," said Adam, sounding very cheerful indeed.

The other three echoed the sentiment.

"Er, this doesn't look much like the place the woman at tourist information described," said the shortest of the four.

"You wouldn't be looking for the _Cat's Whisker's Cafe_ would you?" said Gail.

"Yes, we asked a man for directions and he said—"

"It's on the other side of town. People sometimes get us mixed up."

"We could have a drink here," suggested Brian.

"Good idea," said red haired girl named Pepper assented. "We've been wandering round for ages."

Wensleydale looked around at the dilapidated decor with a hint of trepidation.

"It's okay," said Leon, smirking at the other youth's expression. "They wash the glasses. I've seen them do it."

Wensleydale flushed slightly.

"Hey, is that the _Furious Death_ logo?" said Leon, pointing at Brian's faded black t-shirt.

Shadwell felt a stab of resentment. These days, when his clothes got to that state Madam Tracy always seemed to throw them out.

Brian grinned. "Yeah, it's from the _Hull Hath No Fury_ Tour."

"Cool," said Leon. "I never managed to see them live. I've seen _Pain Syndrome, Fugue State Blues_ and _Goil_ though."

"I've not seen _Goil_ live yet," said Brian, looking slightly resentful about the fact. "I had tickets once, but I got the flu and Wensley here wouldn't let me go."

Wensley scowled. "You could barely stand up unaided."

"But it was _Goil_," protested Brian.

"_Goil_ are corporate sell-outs," said Pepper. "They're almost as bad as _Deth Klok_."

"Doesn't matter," said Leon. "Both bands are still rock incarnate."

Pepper shook her head in mock despair.

Wensleydale muttered something about not even knowing what a _Goil_ was.

"Ingrid here's met them all," said Leon.

"What, _Deth Klok_?"

"No, _Goil_."

Brian's eyes widened. "Have you really?"

The woman rolled her eyes and nodded. "Yeah, I used to work at Saint Delilah's."

"What are they like?" asked Brian. "The band, I mean."

She gave a snort. "They were a laugh. Well, Gregory and Smeagol were, at least. Stan's as thick as two short planks and Warlock, well... let's just say I've never seen anybody jitter quite that hard before. And as for his paranoia and phobias, the less said the better. Mind you considering the stuff that he puts up his nose it's not surprisising. Before I met him I would have sworn that taking that many stimulants would be enough to get anyone a one way ticket to Accident and Emergency. Never seen anybody try to snort a line of carpet lint before either. Though to be fair, I think that it was Smeagol who got him to do that."

Brian laughed, while Pepper and Wensleydale rolled their eyes.

Adam's expression however, seemed to have grown troubled.

"When you say Warlock," he said, carefully, "you don't mean Warlock _Dowling_, do you?"


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: The chapter posted here had been fairly heavily edited in places to keep things PG-13. If you're old enough and so inclined you can find the unexpurgated version in my livejournal ( dreya-uberwald./ ).

-0-0-0-0-

White didn't talk much in the car.

To Sable's distress, he didn't bother to break the catalytic converter, tamper with the engine or smear the leather seats with industrial strength corrosive either. He didn't even seem interested in littering the vehicle's moderately clean interior. Well, there were a couple of mint humbug wrappers on the floor, but he suspected that they'd merely stuck to the soles of White's shoes by accident and then rubbed off on the carpet. Instead, the personification of Pollution seemed to alternate between gazing aimlessly out of the window and casting heated, heavy-lidded glances a Sable. The latter was really quite distracting.

When Sable finally brought the Aston Martin to a stop on a grassed-over patch of cliff top it took almost all of his very well developed self-control not to take hold of his wayward colleague, lay him down onto the car bonnet and proceed to do things liable to induce scandalised shock and awe on the part of any passers-by. Instead, he shut the door, activated the security system and began to lead White along the perimeter of the cliff.

"Where are we going?" asked White.

Sable gestured towards a very large building in the distance. "That house has got a private path going down to the beach."

As they walked towards the stone structure, White's expression became increasingly more unreadable, assuming that rather fetching glazed-over quality that the errant personification seemed to get – or at least _had_ seemed to get – when toxic compound met pure freshwater stream. Sable however was certain that White was experiencing the same feelings of anticipation that he was.

After several minutes of walking, during which Sable did his best to avoid commenting on the sad lack of rubbish dancing at his companion's feet, or say anything that might lead to another argument about White's distressing loss of motivation, they came to the barrier of high wrought iron railings that surrounded the house.

White looked inquiringly at Sable.

"How should we get through without being seen?" he said, nodding towards the securely barred and locked gate that stood at the entrance. "People have started to notice me."

"Yes, they have haven't they," said Sable, trying to quash from his voice the small surge of bile this statement induced. He was aware that any overt displays of jealousy were likely to be counterproductive right now. They would either drive White away or – depending on the extent to which entity's perverse playfulness had survived this current ennui – be used as a way to manipulate Sable. Not that he minded White attempting to manipulate him, of course. He just didn't like the idea that he might wholly and unequivocally succeed.

"I was hoping you could..." he left the sentence hanging as he nodded towards a stretch of railing that was obscured from the view of the house by a crop of tall Cornish palm trees.

When White took the hint and laid his hands on the ornate metal bars, Sable felt the corners of his mouth quirk upwards. When the base of said bars began to corrode into flakes of rust, Sable outright smiled.

"You've still got it, you know," he murmured.

White made no response; choosing instead to silently drop the remnants of the fence to the floor and amble into the grounds. To Sable's satisfaction, nobody was around. He might have been very good at persuading people to allow him access to places, but right now the prospect of devoting twenty minutes to coaxing the (obviously nouveau riche if the outside decor was anything to go by) owner of the house to let them have them have access to his private beach didn't really appeal to him.

"This way," said Sable, gesturing towards what looked, at first glance, to be a hole in the ground on the far side of the lawn, but which was in actuality the entrance to a long and winding set of steps leading down the cliffs and onto the beach below.

White, who was glancing around with casual curiosity, wandered towards the spot his companion was pointing to.

"What an enormous carbon footprint they must have," he murmured, eyeing the string of electric lanterns that were installed along the walls of carved out cliff on either side of the narrow staircase. "The bulbs aren't even energy saving."

Sable didn't reply directly to this almost awestruck comment, but took it as a hopeful sign that White was returning to his senses.

"Shall we go down?" he inquired.

"Oh yes," said White, breathily. "I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Crowley was exhausted.

Unfortunately he was also restless.

He wasn't certain if it was an after effect of being exposed to the mind altering substances Pollution had been exuding or an after effect of being caught in the act of pleasuring Pollution by his oldest friend, an easily shocked Witchfinder Private, a easily provoked Witchfinder Sergeant and his bedfellow's annoying and downright possessive former co-worker. However, the fact was that he was presently in that unpleasant state in which one is too wired to relax but too tired to do anything truly productive (or in Crowley's case appropriately demonically destructive).

Still, he had managed to derive some satisfaction from orchestrating the network meltdown at the library. Watching from the shadows as an already tense and irritable head of computer services attempted to undo his handiwork was incredibly entertaining. In Crowley's opinion the woman came across as rather annoyingly self-satisfied and it was amusing to watch her flounder in the face of his demonic computer reprogramming. Not that he wanted to teach her any lessons in humility, of course. No, he just wanted to up the tech support's generalised misanthropy slightly from its – already quite well developed – natural baseline to a level that was certain to ensure an acute bout of misery for any library visitor incautious enough to come within ten yards of any of the terminals.

Alas, he had been unable to stay to watch what her reaction would be when she discovered that each of the machines would have to be individually reformatted. He'd promised to meet Aziraphale in the water gardens and he remained, as ever, a demon of his word.

It took him forty-five minutes to saunter over from the library to the gardens. The journey should have taken half that time, but Crowley's earlier attempt to confound and annoy tourists by twisting around the signposts had served to leave him without reliable direction.

When he finally arrived at his destination (which transpired, contrary to the name, to be _a_ garden with five distinctly lacklustre water features), he immediately spotted Aziraphale sitting on a park bench next to one Howard Goode.

On catching the angel's eye immediately raised a brow. He hadn't anticipated that they were going to have company, and the thought of spending any more time around the man than was strictly necessary to engage in infernally mandated acts of temptation was not appealing in the least. It was bad enough that he was in all odds about to face some rather probing and uncomfortable questions from his angelic counterpart.

Aziraphale gave an apologetic shrug in response. He clearly hadn't anticipated the company either.

With a deep sigh of resignation, he walked over to the pair. It wouldn't, after all, do to give the angel too much free reign in his salvation attempts.

"Mr. Crowley!" exclaimed Howard Goode, as he caught sight of the sharp suited London lawyer who had, just a day earlier visited the news of his unexpected inherence upon his.

"Hello, dear boy," said Aziraphale.

"You're friends?" Goode looked surprised.

Aziraphale nodded. "We've known each other for years."

"That's one way of putting it," muttered Crowley.

"We were just talking about London," said the angel. "About how many opportunities there are to do good in the capital."

"I'm not sure I'd be cut out for life in the big city," said Goode.

"You might surprise yourself," said Crowley. "Perhaps you could take a holiday there. See what you think of the place."

The man looked doubtful. "Perhaps I could. But I've got so many responsibilities here."

Glad that his sunglasses afforded him the ability to roll his eyes at will; Crowley fought back the urge to give voice to his opinions of Howard Goode's obvious martyr complex and overestimation of his importance to the civic life of Willowholme.

"Everybody deserves a holiday," he encouraged.

"Well, I suppose that it wouldn't hurt for a week or so. But as for moving there... Well, I'd miss everybody here so much. There's my Great Aunt, for one. Then there's everybody from church and all of my co-workers from the library... I'm really not sure that Annabelle could cope without me. And I really would be sad to say goodbye to Leon and Jenny."

_... who consider you to be a sanctimonious git with a sense of humour bypass and a minor annoyance who shouldn't be allowed within five feet of a desktop PC respectively,_ Crowley mentally added, noticing that at no point did the man mention having any 'friends' to miss. It didn't surprise him. Goode positively reeked of a particularly pungent and off-putting scent of good natured social desperation. Still, he was unable to stop himself from feeling a very small twinge of sympathy for the man.

Before he had chance to think up a suitably subtle way to point out that the large population of the capital would provide him with a better statistical chance of meeting somebody who would be willing to voluntarily spend time in his presence, there was a cough from somebody behind him.

Crowley turned to look into the tired and somewhat haunted expression of the Hon. Henry Peybury.

"What do you want?" he snapped. He really didn't want to have any further interaction with the man who'd been so intent on (very clumsily in Crowley's opinion) seducing Pollution the previous evening. Not that he saw him as anything of a threat, of course. He just didn't really want to be reminded of the personification. Especially not now that Pollution seemed to have vanished following that little discussion Famine and Adam had been determined to have with him.

He hadn't seen Famine since then either (though the demon had left the party shortly after ravenous mob had been dealt with), so perhaps the elder personification had managed to convince his associate to resume his position. Crowley gave an inward snort _'Well, assume some kind of position, at least_, he thought, slightly sourly. Or maybe Adam had done... _something_.

He knew that the Antichrist was, in his own way, a very principled young man. But he also knew that he was willing to do what needed to be done to keep reality running; and if Pollution's recent abdication of responsibility was posing a serious threat to free will, who knew what Adam might do.

Crowley didn't particularly want to be concerned about the welfare of the youngest Horseperson of the Apocalypse. However, despite his well practiced aptitude at denial and self-deception, he wasn't quite able to convince himself that a) he didn't care; and that b) the previous night's activities had been nothing more than a pleasant physical diversion.

"If you must know I was looking for Mr. Goode," Peybury replied tersely.

"You are?" said Goode, sounding surprised.

Peybury nodded.

"It's Jennifer," he said. "She's supposed to be in the library, trying to undo the damage that some..." He seemed to be searching for a suitably strong descriptor that wouldn't offend the overly sensitive ears of Howard Goode. "... some _utter reprobate_ did to her computers this morning, but her mobile's switch off and she's not answering the landline."

"Oh, she never answers the landline," said Goode. "In fact, she's always been rather, er, adamant about the fact that responding to telephone enquiries from members the general public isn't in her job description." He gave a sheepish smile. "To be honest I don't think that she likes dealing with the general public in any capacity very much."

"Yes, that sounds like her." Peybury gave a small and slightly nervous laugh. "I mean, don't get me wrong she's a wonderful girl, absolutely wonderful. One thing that my brother did right. It's just that sometimes I wonder if she couldn't try to be a bit kinder to your patrons... and the rest of the staff." He gave another nervous little laugh. "The thing is that a business associate of mine seems to have appropriated my car without permission and I wanted to ask Jennifer if I could borrow the Rover. So I was wondering if you could possibly let me into the library?"

"Where is it that you need to go?" asked Goode.

"Exeter," Peybury replied. "I've got the full plans for the North Wing stored up there and the structural engineers need to take a look at them before they can start work on the walls."

"Well, I'd be happy to drive you myself," he offered, in what Crowley felt to be a sickening and unnecessary display of obsequious helpfulness. Peybury, on the other hand seemed grateful for the offer.

"Would you?" he said. "I must admit that I'm really a bit too tired to drive at moment, but it's rather urgent that I go there today."

Goode nodded. "We can set off now, if you like."

"Thank you. This is truly very kind of you, Mr. Goode."

"Please, call me Howard." He got up from the bench, before turning to smile at Aziraphale. "It's been good to speak to you again, Mr. Fell. I hope you'll manage to drop in on us at the library sometime soon."

"I certainly will," Aziraphale assured him.

He turned to Crowley. "Goodbye, Mr. Crowley."

"Yeah, bye, Howard," he said, with a small wave, trying not to sound too terse.

When the pair had made their way to the other side of the garden he sat down on the bench and looked at Aziraphale. "Fifty quid says that their mutual sexual frustration will get the better of them half way along the A30."

"Really, Crowley," he said in tones of mock reproach. "I think that young Howard could be a very positive influence on Henry Peybury."

"And Peybury's done some pretty sleazy things in his time."

"I don't deny it, but he's got the potential to be a good man."

"Lots of the ones who end up downstairs do," said Crowley, cynically. "Anyway, if Goode hooked up with Peybury we'd never get him away from here. He's desperate to latch onto someone."

"Peybury's offices are in London," countered Aziraphale. "From what I can gather, he spends much of his time in the capital."

Unable to fault the angel's logic Crowley didn't respond, choosing instead to fixate on a small and rather tacky fountain that seemed to be trying to be the water garden's centrepiece. He didn't particularly want to think about Pollution, or indeed anything to do with the previous few days, but he didn't really feel like discussing the terminally dull Howard Goode either.

After a few minutes of quiet, Aziraphale broke the silence. "Adam didn't do anything to him, you know."

Aware that feigning ignorance as to the identity of _him_ would be an insult to his friend's intelligence, Crowley didn't bother to attempt it.

Crowley was disconcerted by the relief this statement induced. "He didn't?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "He's given him a choice: resume his duties or lose his identity."

"Lose his identity?"

"Stop being the personification of Pollution."

"And become what?"

The angel gave a small shrug. "That's anybody's guess."

"Famine'll try to convince him to return."

"I expect so." Aziraphale paused for a minute before continuing. "It would probably be for the best, you know."

Crowley knew that it would be. At least in terms of Heaven, Hell, Earth and their respective occupants, but part of him – the part that had once said 'bugger all this for a laugh' and opted to saunter vaguely downwards – couldn't help but feel the urge to urge on Pollution's rebellion. The angel was probably right. Maybe it was a case of him recognising something of himself in Pollution. But then again, Pollution, even in this new state of questioning existence, was so very different to Crowley.

He gave a snort. The beautiful little bastard had really got under his skin.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

As they finally reached the end of the stone staircase Sable paused for a few moments to survey the beach. The pure, clean, unspoilt beach.

He then turned to survey White, whose glassy eyes were surveying the scene.

"What do you think?" Sable asked, as a suddenly ravenous seabird began to frenziedly peck at the sand.

White seemed to consider this for several seconds, his lips pursing in a very appealing manner. "An untouched canvas," he said eventually, voice even breathier than usual.

At this Sable experienced a wave of something that was half-relief and half-arousal.

He was almost certain that he had him. If he could just refrain for pushing too hard too soon, and if he could keep the beautiful prodigy's thoughts on him and away from... undesirable influences, then surely things would turn out as they should.

"You really are beautiful," he said, moving in to brush over a pale cheek with long, slim fingers.

Giving what sounded like a contented sigh, White moved into the touch without hesitation.

Taking this as his cue to continue, Sable brought the fingers of his other hand to tilt his companion's chin upwards.

White's lips parted as Sable brought his mouth to meet his, offering no protest as Sable slid his tongue between his teeth. On the occasions that he'd indulged himself carnally with humans, Sable had displayed a deep aversion to kissing: disgusted by the residual taste of nourishment that seemed to linger there. White's mouth however was something different: as beautiful and toxic as the rest of him and tasting of nothing but the most delightful poisons.

There was no resistance when he deepened the kiss. Not that he thought there would be. White did however begin to make the most delightful little noises of contentment as Sable brought one hand to his lower back and pressed their bodies together.

After that it was all touch and heat and bodies moving against each other: White's pleasured cries eclipsing even the noise of the first death rasp on Sable's mental list of beautiful sounds.

When it was all over they collapsed wordlessly onto the sand.

After around twelve minutes White got up and began to attempt to re-clothe himself.

Not one to lie around on beaches for no reason, Sable also rose.

"White, I want us to work together," he said, once White had succeeded in getting himself as dressed as his now-ragged apparel allowed him.

White looked at him. "I need some more time to think."

Sable opened his mouth to protest, but found himself quickly silenced when his pale lover moved in for another kiss. This one sweeter and less desperate than before.

"As I said," White murmured, as he drew away, "I need some more time to think."

Knowing it was useless to argue he didn't move to stop him from retreating.

"I'm certain you'll make the right decision," he said.

For what was possibly the first time in his existence however, the confidence his in his voice was not matched by the confidence he felt.

Still, he was _almost_ certain that White was returning to his senses. Almost.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Are you okay?"

Adam looked up from his pint of cider to see Pepper looking at him quizzically.

"Yeah, I'm..." He paused as he recalled how he'd earlier been told off by his friends for not being entirely honest about thing. "Well, not completely."

"What's wrong?" she asked. "If you're still worried about what we all think about you being yourself, you shouldn't. It doesn't matter to us what—"

"It's not that," he said, cutting her off. "It's Warlock."

"The bass player from Goil?" Her eyes narrowed in perplexity.

He nodded. "Yeah, I think I could be partly to blame for his drug problem."

Pepper's obvious confusion intensified.

Adam glanced first at Shadwell (who was riling to a too-polite-to-back-away Wensleydale about the hell-bound Satanspawn who had presided over his hearing at the Higher Upton Magistrates' Court) and then at the little crowd that had now gathered around the bar to hear Brian's account of the last rock festival he'd been to, before dropping his voice. "You know how I told you earlier about the mix up with the baby switch at the satanic nunnery: with us all getting messed about because heaven and hell wanted to have a fight."

She nodded. "You mean the one where you got given to your parents and the American ambassador's son became Greasy Johnson."

"Yeah, that's the one. You see, Warlock Dowling was the third baby: the one that my mum actually gave birth to."

"The one that was given to the ambassador?"

"Yeah."

"That's pretty incredible," she said. "But I still don't understand why that makes his drug problem your fault. It's not as if you told anybody to swap you and the other babies around. And besides, how do you know that he'd be any better off if he hadn't been involved? Well, I suppose _you_ might, you being you and all that, but my point still stands."

"It wasn't the baby swap," said Adam.

"Then how—?"

"I let his parents take him back to America after the apocalypse didn't happen," he explained. "I don't think that he really wanted to go, but I couldn't imagine anything better than going somewhere with that many flavours of ice cream."

Looking more baffled than ever, Pepper took a deep breath. "But I thought you said that you'd decided not to mess around with people's lives, even if it made them happier."

"It wouldn't have been messing about," said Adam firmly. "It would have been more like... giving a small present. Like the time I made sure that Brian managed to get the last Playstation 2 in the shop."

"You did that?"

He nodded. "I sometimes I do small things. Not doing anything to people's minds or changing the world or anything like that... Just... just sometimes helping people out. I helped Greasy Johnson find out about American football, and it made him happy. But I didn't do anything for Warlock because I was eleven and I was still thinking in terms of other kids wanting the same things I did. And now it seems as though he ended up getting really miserable in America."

Pepper sighed. "Yes, but you didn't force him to become a hideously wealthy rock star with a drug problem."

"I know. It's just that I wish that I'd given him something to make him happy too."

She eyed him critically for a few moments before responding. "Well, the way I see it, there's not much point getting upset about it now. I mean, personally I think that it's a bit self indulgent for you to be feeling responsible for other people's choices. Especially given that you point blank refuse to do anything about that chemical plant in Greater Tripley."

Inwardly groaning at the thought of Pepper launching into another round of 'but surely it wouldn't be altering humanity's destiny to do something about this one small environmental threat', he raised his hands in supplication. "Okay, I see what you're saying."

Obviously noticing that this concession wasn't making Adam any happier Pepper's expression softened a little.

"Look, if you still feel bad about it then why don't you do something nice for him now. A sort of belated 'Happy Non-Apocalypse Fellow Baby Switchee' present."

Adam pondered the suggestion. "It'd be a good idea, I suppose," he said. "But I wouldn't know what to give him."

Pepper seemed to think about this for a moment.

"Perhaps you could ask him," she suggested.

He thought about it for a moment. It seemed like a perfectly sensible suggestion. However there was, to his mind, just one small problem with it. "How would I do that? I haven't seen him since I was five hours old. I can hardly just walk up to him and ask if he remembers me"

She shrugged. "You're you, I'm sure you could think of something." Her mouth curved into a grin. "Besides, I'm pretty sure that Brian would love you forever if you managed to get him tickets to that gig next weekend."


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: A big thankyou to those who left comments for the last chapter. Sorry that this one took so long. I should also probably mention that the psychotropic library mentioned here was, of course, inspired by the psychotropic scenery of Uberwald.

-o-

It took a surprisingly short time for Dr. Gelb and his avian companion to get from the rescue centre to the nearest airport. He had been delighted with the way the whole operation had gone: with the cold, wet and deeply traumatised survivors huddling together first in the lifeboats and then in the helicopters that brought them to safety. With each cough and accidental brush of skin upon skin, his darling little microbes had spread silently amongst them. Soon the dear little things would be blossoming within their unwitting hosts, causing a whole multitude of new and exciting ailments.

There had been several downsides to the sinking, of course. Most of Gelb's notes and all but two of his test tubes had been lost. And there was the fact that he'd been rather enjoying his little holiday until the two idiotic Dukes of Lurk had interfered. However, all in all, he was feeling rather upbeat about things. It had been a long time since he'd stepped into the role of Horseperson of the Apocalypse and, as he strode towards the terminal from which his flight would depart, the ever faithful Ernest waddling beside him, he felt almost as if he was coming home.

"Just another two hundred meters," the personification reassured his worn out companion.

Ernest gave a distinctly disgruntled quack.

Gelb rolled his eyes. There was no real annoyance in the gesture, of course, just a good deal of humour at his apprentice's lack of patience. "Yes, I know that we could have been on the flight to Dubai ten minutes ago. However, we would have then had a six hour wait until the flight to Manchester arrived. This one will take us direct to Charles de Gaul where we can hop straight on."

"_Quack!_"

He chuckled. "Come along my feathered friend. I know that we need to do a little more walking to get to our terminal this way, but it will all be worth it in the end."

The series of honks Ernest made in response indicated that he was less than convinced. The young mallard clearly didn't see the logic of the course of action Gelb proposed. Truth be told, Gelb himself was aware that his plan didn't really make sense if one thought about it in logical terms. London, with its larger population and extensive underground transport network, would, all things considered, probably be better places to start the little epidemic he had planned for the UK. However, instinct told him that Manchester was the place to be, and Gelb's instincts had served him rather well during his retirement years.

As Ernest continued to quack home his point, Gelb gave an exaggerated sigh. "Well, yes, we could go to London. Indeed we may still sojourn there sometime in the near future. However, at this moments there's a certain _something_ about Manchester that calls out to me. I've done some great work there in the past, you know. TB, dysentery, measles..."

"_Honk?_"

"Well, not much recently, aside from the STDs, of course... though I do know that good old TB had been making a bit of a comeback. Trust me on this one though, Ernest. Things _will_ start to happen once we get there."

Ernest tilted his neck in a manner that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced. However, his small honk of contrition, along the way his waddle quickened to a more business-like pace, suggested that he was willing to put aside his misgivings in the name of standing by his mentor.

As they finally approached the terminal in which their departure gate was located, Gelb couldn't help but smile to himself. It really was nice to have a loyal companion like Ernest.

He sometimes wondered if his more solitary colleagues had any idea what they were missing.

-0-

If there was somebody who _could_ relate to the relationship between occult entity and abnormally sentient animal companion, it was Adam Young.

Right now, he and his faithful hellhound were standing outside the Willowholme Library with Pepper and Wensleydale. Brian, for his part, was still in the Cat & Mouse Inn engaged in an intense discussion with Leon Waters about whether _Brain Dead Muse_ was a better album than _Mass Sickness Effect_. The other three didn't mind this, of course. None of them were quite as fixated with hard rock bands as he was; and it wasn't every day that Brian met somebody who shared his enthusiasm.

"So our plan is to just go in there and ask nicely?" said Pepper, doubtfully.

Adam nodded.

Wensleydale shook his head. "Wouldn't it make more sense just to sneak into the club? I mean, we did gatecrash that party last night, so I'm assuming that you don't have any moral objection to it."

"It'll work better if we do it like this," assured Adam.

Wensleydale didn't look convinced. "Didn't those two barmaids say that this Mrs Lowry's a bit pissed off at the moment? I mean, I can't see her being very receptive to us asking her to get us one of these special invitations to see Goil. Especially given that she doesn't know who the hell we are. Wouldn't it make more sense to wait for a few days? I mean, we are here for the rest of the week."

"Trust me on this one," said Adam, grinning.

Dog barked in assent.

He was Adam and so they did.

-0-

According to Sisyphus Mean Time it was currently quarter past 'Great, time to start rolling this bloody great bolder up the mountain, yet again'.

In his domain of madness, despair and fiendish filing systems, Under Duke Dagon was laughing. It was a dry, rasping sort of laugh that put one in mind of quills scratching against parchment. A laugh that had taken him almost an aeon to perfect.

"You mean to say that it got them both?" said the Succubus Belladonna, her large, seductive eyes filled with mirth.

"Oh yes, according to the imps up in Discorporate Re-entries it was a simultaneous dousing."

"What on earth happened to them?"

"Nobody's quite sure yet. Neither of them seemed to be capable of a coherent word. Though I do know that Hastur's been muttering something about Pestilence and a little duck."

"What?"

"It would seem that the retiree has come out of retirement." He gave an exaggerated sigh. "You wouldn't believe the amount of paperwork _that's_ going to generate. In fact, unless new the clerical imps arrive soon, I wouldn't be surprised if we had to draft in some of the riffraff from the Malebolge to cope with the increase."

"Malacoda's lot?" Her rosebud mouth narrowed in revulsion.

"I'm afraid so."

"How distasteful. Still, the idea of old Pestilence being up and about is rather intriguing. How are the Princes reacting?"

"They seem a little... uncertain," he said. In reality Dagon had no idea how the Princes of Hell were responding to this new information. Despite his impressive ability to keep abreast of infernal affairs, when it came to the highest echelons of the damned he usually had to wait for information to filter down through Duke Belphegor. However, he was not about to disabuse his compatriot of her belief that he was in a position to know the minds of the underworld's elite.

"Uncertain?" queried the Succubus. "You mean that they're not sure what—?"

Before she could finished her question there was a flash of dark red flame followed by a sound redolent of a million agitated flies buzzing.

As the Lord of the Flies materialised, the Lord of the Files froze.

"Thou hast obviouzzzly been mizzzinformed Dagon," Beelzebub said, as Under Duke and Succubus scrambled to adopt postures of suitable servility. "We are quite certain azzz to what we are going to do."

"Your Highness?" Dagon murmured in what he dearly hoped was a respectful enough manner.

"It was thou who wazz responzzzible for suggesting Hastur and Ligur for thizzz mizzzion, izz this not so?"

Dagon felt a stab of panic. "Yes your Highness, but I thought—"

"Silence! Thy thoughtzzz are of no matter, Dagon. What izz of concern izz the fact that we no longer have any zzzuitably reliable reprezzzentatives on earth."

"But your Highness," he pleaded, "the Soul Entrance figures clearly demonstrate that the problem is gradually beginning to right itself. With Pestilence back in action the void left by Pollution has been filled."

"The problem hath been temporarily averted yezzz, but thou of all demonzzz should be aware that there are now more long term issuezzz to conzzzider. Pestilencezzz is rising oncezzz more, thizzz may be true, but pollution izzz still not done. We need to know how thizzz will affect thingzzz in the future."

"Your Highness?" he queried, relieved that Beelzebub didn't seem to be hinting at his imminent vaporization, but feeling distinctly unsettled as to what the Prince of Hell might be getting at.

"Thou will go to invezzztigate, Dagon. Hastur and Ligur were... _dizzztractible_. Thou ist known for thy thoroughnezzz and thy attention to detail, ist thou not?"

"Of course your Highness, but my Department—"

"Can be supervizzzed by Count Murmur until thy return."

"But—?"

"There izzz no but, Dagon. Thou will go to earth and thou will obzzzerve."

"Yes, your Highness," Dagon conceded, all four of his hearts sinking at the thought of what Count Murmur would do to _his_ carefully constructed clerical procedures.

As Beelzebub disappeared in a flash of red flame, the Succubus Belladonna gave him a look that was almost sympathetic.

"It could be worse," she said. "He could be drafting in one of the Malabranche to take over from you. At least the worst Murmur'll do is lose the Pound of Flesh requisition forms again."

Dagon almost wept.

He would have undoubtedly experienced slightly different feelings towards the situation if he had been aware that the angel Amitiel had just received similar – if marginally less threatening – orders from Gabriel. However, he didn't and therefore found himself overcome by a stab of despair so sharp that it by far eclipsed anything currently being endured by the any of the damned souls residing in the Seventh Circle. He couldn't help it, the memory of what had happened to his filing system the last time one of the lesser Counts had been left in charge was stilled seared into his mind.

-0-

If Adam hadn't have been, well, _Adam_, Pepper and Wensleydale would have found stepping into the lending library more than a little unnerving. It wasn't so much the fact that what they were doing was essentially breaking and entering (after all, the front entrance just unlocked itself the moment Adam had touched the door handle, so it wasn't as if there was technically any 'breaking' involved). No, it was more how dim, empty and echoey the cavernous room was. As if it was the antechamber to the lair of some dark and terrible lord. Granted, most dark and terrible lords tended not to keep their Mills & Boone collections in public display (Under Duke Dagon, for instance, kept his bodice-rippers locked in an impenetrable chest of gilt and bone secreted in the recesses of a room marked _Incubus Visitation Records: 348BC – 354BC_); however, there was something distinctly eerie about the place. An eeriness that was only enhanced by the pained groans that seemed to be emanating from an office at the far side of the room marked _IT Services_.

"This building's mildly psychotropic," explained Adam, noticing their hesitancy.

"Psychotropic?" queried Pepper. "You mean we're going to start having hallucinations?"

Adam shook his head. "Nothing that drastic. The Genius Loci isn't _that_ strong. It's more that the atmosphere attunes itself to the moods of the people who spend a lot of time here."

"Somebody's obviously not happy then," she said, casting an appraising look around the dismal place.

"I'll say," muttered Wensleydale. "Look Adam, I really think that we should go. If you're right and the atmosphere here is reflecting somebody's disposition, I think that it's pretty clear that they don't want anybody else around."

Adam didn't respond, choosing instead just to stand and watch as Dog bounded over to the _IT Services_ door and started to bark.

Within a matter of seconds, the door was flung open from the inside by a small, bleary-eyed woman, whose frizzy ginger hair was sticking out of her head at wild angles.

For a while she just stared at Dog, who woofed and wagged his tail excitedly. Obviously deeply annoyed at this interruption, yet clearly unwilling to vent her ire at the small, loveable mongrel before her, she looked up and fixed Adam with a bloodshot glare.

"We're closed," she said, voice barbed with ice. It was the kind of voice that would have had most people mumbling an apology and heading very quickly in the opposite. Adam though, merely gave a sheepish grin and continued to walk towards her.

"The door was open," he said, not lying exactly, but still – in both Pepper and Wensleydale's opinion – stretching the truth beyond the limits of taste and decency.

"Open?" She visibly ground her teeth. "You'd think that after a break-in that airy-fairy twit Isobel would remember to lock the sodding public entrance."

"You've had a break-in?" said Adam.

She gave a humourless snort. "Some bastard got in through one of the first floor windows, broke into my office and fucked up my entire network."

"How did they do that?" he asked.

"I'm still trying to figure that one out," she said, her voice softening very slightly. There was an undercurrent of humiliation to these words, as if she felt this lack of progress to be indicative of some sort of shameful personal failing.

Wensleydale found that he could sympathise. He could still remember the feeling of abject defeat he'd experienced that time he'd been forced to ask Greasy Johnson's cousin for help installing a new graphics card.

"I can't find any viruses, worms, malware or new programs," she continued, frustration leaking from every pore. "And none of the admin settings have been visibly altered, even though there's a clear record of somebody getting into the account – and fuck knows how they did that in the space of three minutes, I always keep the security on these things tighter than a nun's tw—" As a scandalised look began to dawn on Wensleydale's face, she came crashing to a mercifully abrupt verbal halt. "Er, sorry, my turn of phrase can get a bit colourful when I'm on edge like this."

"It's all right, Mrs Lowry," said Adam.

Her eyes narrowed. "How the hell do you know my...?" A look of realisation dawned. "Wait a minute, weren't you one of the kids who gatecrashed my brother-in-law's party last night? I'm sure I saw you talking to that Mr. Fell."

Adam gave a nod of calculated – yet still endearing – sheepishness. "There was somebody I really needed to talk to in there."

She quirked her head. "And you couldn't have just phoned them?"

"He doesn't have a mobile... and, well, I was really worried about him. He's having a bit of a crisis at the moment and I needed to make sure he was okay."

Her lips twitched upwards a little. "You're talking about White, aren't you?"

He nodded.

"Now there's somebody with even worse taste in men than me." She paused for a moment, as if mentally debating whether to say something more on the subject. "Dr. Sable was looking for him this morning, you know."

"I thought he might," said Adam, expression suddenly unreadable.

"He's not White's psycho ex or anything, is he? I mean, I know it's none of my business, but—"

"You were worried about him," Adam said, before she could finish.

"A little," she admitted, as if confessing to a mildly embarrassing weakness. "I mean, that lawyer, Andrew Crowley, or whatever he's called, is obviously a piece of work, but I'm betting that White could ditch him in a minute if he wanted to. Dr. Sable though, well, he just seemed so proprietary about him."

"Sable would never intentionally hurt White," he reassured.

"And unintentionally?"

Adam shrugged. "I think everybody's capable of hurting people unintentionally."

"True." She conceded. "And I suppose that my idea of an overbearing, paternalistic bastard could very well be somebody else's idea of a soul-mate." She gave a weary sigh. "Anyway, I've got to get back to work, so you three will have to come back tomorrow if you to have a look around."

"Don't you think you should you should have a rest first," said Wensleydale, aware that the woman was at least ten years his senior, yet compelled to remark on the fact that she currently looked as though she was just about ready to pass-out from exhaustion. "You must have been up all night with the, er..."

"Inevitable consequences of my brother-in-law's ill thought out birthday party at which you gatecrashers succeeded in causing less damage than the actual invited guests?"

Wensleydale nodded.

"I'll be fine," she said. "I won't be able to sleep until it's sorted out anyway."

"I could help," volunteered Adam. "I'm really good at fixing computers."

She looked at him doubtfully. "It's kind of you to offer- I'm sorry I don't know you name."

"I'm Adam," he said. "And this is Pepper and Wensleydale."

Dog barked.

"Oh, and that's Dog," he added.

"I'm Jenny," she said. "Anyway Adam, it's nice of you to offer, but this is really beyond anything I've seen before. Hell, I haven't been able to find a single instance of anybody else coming across it either and I know people who— well, let's just say that they're usually in the know. To be honest I'm starting to think that I'm going to have to reformat every single computer on the network and start again from scratch." She snorted. "Well, providing they've not somehow managed to damage the actual hardware as well."

"It couldn't hurt for me to take a look anyway though," said Adam. "I promise not to do anything without your permission."

She gave a shrug. It was, in Wensleydale's opinion, testament to Adam's powers of being Adam that this persistence didn't immediately arouse her suspicions.

"Well, okay then. I suppose it couldn't hurt."

Adam beamed.

-0-

White was confused.

He'd just been given something that he'd been craving (albeit subconsciously) for a good part of his existence. And now he was feeling even more unsure and unsettled than he had that morning.

He knew that Sable wanted them to be together in every sense of the word. An idea that filled part of him with delight.

He also knew that for this to happen he himself would have to return to what he was. And idea that filled part of him with dread.

To reject his position would be to reject Sable. Yet the thought of resuming his position struck him as utterly dreary. And then there was the matter of Crowley. He got the feeling that Sable would be less than happy about the idea of him continuing to associate with the demon should they opt turn their working relationship into something... more. This didn't mean that White wouldn't continue to associate with the demon Crowley, of course (though it was clear that Crowley himself was afraid of Sable). However, the fact was that this entanglement with Crowley had occurred precisely because of his estrangement from his function. To return to it would no doubt put an end to whatever it was that was developing between himself and the demon.

As he walked aimlessly down the coastal path that led back to Willowholme, he wondered how on earth he was supposed to decide what to do when he couldn't even decide what mattered most. He had often heard the humans around him speak about how it was impossible 'have your cake and eat it' and had always put it down as just another of their strange little metaphorical refrains. Right now however, he found himself confronted by the painful truth of the sentiment.

He admired and respected Sable more than any other being in creation, barring perhaps – if he was in the mood for philosophical wonderings – the creator himself.

On the other hand Sable seemed unable to understand White. Like him, cared for him and wanted to be around him, yes. But he didn't understand. White didn't think he could understand Sable either. Not really. He just couldn't comprehend how he it was possible for a being to continue with his function out of nothing more than a sense of purpose and duty. He didn't understand what the point of this could possibly be. Yet Sable had told him that this was exactly what he had done himself when faced with periods of time in which his purpose had failed to consume and enrapture him.

White could understand maintaining his position to maintain his connection to Sable. But he couldn't comprehend the idea that he should carry on with something he derived no satisfaction from simply because it was 'the way things worked'.

The entity who came closest to understanding him was Crowley. Oh, the demon couldn't comprehend what it was to be one of the Four, of course. The reality of being an embodiment was not something that could be grasped by somebody who'd never been anything more than an employee. However, he knew that what Crowley did understand what it was to suddenly question one's mandated purpose and reject it.

What White wanted, really wanted, was to create beautiful things. His sense of aesthetics might change and evolve, but the urge to create things that satisfied it would, he was certain, remain constant. He also wanted, with about as much intensity, to share a closer connection with Sable: the being with whom he'd shared the most during his existence to date. The two things seemed to be mutually exclusive. Yet he had to choose.

It was the most difficult task he had ever faced.

Anthropomorphic personifications were not, after all, generally accustomed to making life altering decisions.

-0-

"You got Goil tickets! I don't believe it."

Brian had the expression of a child who'd just been given the keys to the sweetshop.

"And a pass to the VIP area too," added Wensleydale, with a grin. Despite his utter lack of interest in seeing the band, Wensleydale couldn't help but find his friend's utter delight at the news a little infectious.

"How the hell did you manage it?" Brian asked, beaming from ear to ear. "Leon said that Jenny Lowry never gives people she's just met passes to Saint Delilah's events."

"He didn't have to ask," said Wensleydale.

"Then how—?"

"After Adam fixed the library computer network, she offered to get us VIP tickets to see any band playing at Saint Del's over the next two months that we wanted," said Pepper.

"Wow, thanks Adam," said Brian. "This is going to be brilliant. I just know it. I mean, I'm going to meet Smeagol Gollum himself."

Adam smiled. "It'll certainly be interesting."

There was something about the way he said 'interesting' that unsettled Wensleydale ever so slightly. A glance at Pepper's expression revealed similar sudden misgivings on her part.

"Don't worry," said Adam, picking up on their unease. "I won't let anything terrible happen. It's just that, well, I got a feeling that it'll be interesting."

They both relaxed.

Adam being Adam, they knew that they could trust him


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: Various RL responsibilities along with a mild case of writers block have prevented me from updating this fic and Adam Young's University Days for a while. Hopefully however I'll be able to get this one finished over the next few months, before beginning work on Adam Young's University days once more.

-O-O-

It was half-past ten in the evening.

In the IT Support office of the Willowholme Library one Mrs. Jennifer Lowry was reluctantly coming to consciousness.

This was something of a unique occurrence. As a chronic insomniac she tended not to fall asleep face down on her keyboard, much less snooze on it for over five hours. Yet when Adam Young had said goodbye and told her that she looked like she could do with a nice long rest, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to just sit down and doze off.

Still, aside from the slightly stiff neck and mild embarrassment at the fact that she'd drooled all over the spacebar, she was feeling a lot better than she had that afternoon. No, scratch that, she was feeling better than she had for months. The dull tension headache that had been her near constant companion for the last week seemed to have miraculously disappeared. As, even more strangely, had the painful, nauseating sensation in her gut that usually never failed to have her reaching for the antacids on awakening from a long sleep. The last few days _had_ been very strange though, even by Willowholme standards. Henry's parties were always guaranteed to get out of hand, but last night had definitely set a new bar as far as weirdness and rampant destruction went.

Then there had been the computer virus. What was it that Adam had called it? _The Ligur Virus_. Jenny had found herself doing battle with some pretty nasty malware during the four years she'd spent as Head of IT at the library, but she'd never before encountered anything quite so strange or difficult to locate. Oh sure, that one Henry had got on his laptop last year that launched a clip of 2Girls1Cup every time he tried to alter the time had been an utter bitch to get rid of; but at least she'd actually been able to find the files causing the problem. This thing, however, had, amongst other things, altered the internal clock to something called Sisyphus Mean Time, replaced Microsoft Word with a program calling itself Imp 666 and caused Media Player to open and start playing the Kitty Cat Dance at seemingly random intervals, without leaving a clue to where the hell on the hard drive it had managed to secrete itself.

If that boy Adam Young hadn't been so... so _different_ and so _genuine_ about wanting to help, the fact that an eighteen year old kid with a predilection for gatecrashing had somehow managed to remedy the situation with just a few key strokes would have galled her beyond belief. As it was, she just felt a great deal of gratitude towards him, his friends and that appealing little dog that – quite miraculously – hadn't set off her allergies. Well, she'd promised him and his friends a reward, and a reward she would deliver.

With a yawn she reached for her handbag and removed a tiny mobile phone. It was a phone of such tininess that her subsequent attempt at 'speed dialing' would have been a deeply ironic endeavour if her fingers themselves hadn't been so tiny.

It took just four rings before the call was answered by a cheerful, masculine voice on the other end

"Hello Jennydoll."

"Hi Luke."

"Wasn't expecting to hear from you today. Thought you'd still be recovering from Henry's party."

"Fat chance. Peybury Hall's trashed and some twat broke into the library and buggered about with my computers."

"Bastards! If you know who did it I can come down and... 'have words'."

"Thanks, but I've no idea who it was."

"Well, if you find out let me know. Don't want anybody thinking that they can do stuff like that to my baby cousin."

She smiled fondly. "Will do," she said, knowing full well that she wouldn't. The last thing she wanted was Luke getting sent down again. "Anyway, there was this kid called Adam who helped me sort things out. I said I'd get him and his friends VIP passes for that Goil gig you're holding next weekend."

"No problem, Doll. No problem. Anybody who helps out my little cousin in times of need is always welcome at Saint Del's. I'll get Lindsey to mail them to you first thing."

"Thanks Luke."

"You sure you don't want to come?"

"Not really my scene. Besides, I promised Dermot that I'd meet him for lunch on Saturday."

"Well, just so long as you're here for the Halloween bash." He snorted. "To tell the truth I thought that I might have to cancel the gig a couple of days ago. Half the staff went down with that Green Fever thing. They seem better now though, thank fuck, even if a few of them are a bit sniffly. Unfortunately that artist I hired to do the orgy mural in the new VIP area broke his arm while he was trying to remove a bit of rubbish from a tree.... I was actually going to ring you up tomorrow to ask if you knew anybody down your way who might be interested in doing that one. I know you get a few painters knocking about the town."

She gave an amused sigh. "You know, if you'd called me this time yesterday, I probably would have able to get you just the right man. Complete stoner, of course, but he's a brilliant painter. Unfortunately, he seems to have buggered off and there's no way I could find out his new contact address." This wasn't entirely true. If Dr. Sable had been successful at locating his erstwhile... colleague? Protégé? Paramour?... whatever White was to him, he'd probably have his contact details, but she wasn't prepared to suck up to that creep for the sake of Luke's VIP lounge redecoration.

"Oh, well, if you see him again over the next few days tell him that if he can step in I'm willing to be generous."

"I'll do that."

"Thanks, Doll.... Anyhow, I need to be going now. Me and Tyrone need to talk security with that German bloke and the Japanese kid."

"Rather you than me." She snorted. "See you soon then."

"Yeah, you too. Bye Jenny."

Ticking another thing off her mental 'to do' list, she put the phone in her bag and stepped out into the lending library. After locking the office door behind her, she turned in the direction of the staff exit and began to walk.

What she saw as she headed past the Self-Help section, however, made her stop dead in her tracks.

It was White: dirty, dishevelled and sitting on the floor.

"How the hell did you get in?" she asked, disturbed to find that she didn't feel particularly annoyed about his presence. She had an awful suspicion that it had something to do with the lost and despondent look in his eyes.

_Now, don't you start going soft Jenny Lowry,_ she admonished herself. _Next thing you know you'll be taking in orphan bunnies with mental health problems and volunteering to do Children's Storytime._

"A first floor window was open," he said.

Now that _did_ send a stab of annoyance through her. Didn't any of the other members of staff care about basic security?

"And you just thought you'd clamber on in?"

He nodded. "I need to find out how to make choices."

Her brow furrowed. "Not sure I'm following you."

"I've never really made choices before. I've just always intuitively known what to do, but now I've got to choose and... I don't know how."

She had to forcibly stop herself from furrowing her brow further. It'd do the fine lines that were alas already forming on her forehead no good, and she really didn't fancy the thought of botox anytime in the near future. "So you thought that coming here would help?"

He nodded. "The last time I was in here I noticed that there were books on the subject."

She looked at the book in his hand. "_Dr. Darryl's Decision Guide_," she read out. "Look, no offence, but I don't think a book like that is going to be much use for anything other than propping up tables."

"How do you do it then?"

"What, make choices? Depends what kind of choice it is, I suppose."

"A choice between two... what was it that Dr. Darryl calls them? _Two divergent life paths_."

"Divergent life paths!" Oh dear God, she just didn't know how the infamous Dr. Darryl could keep a straight face while peddling that kind of psychobabble.

"And two people."

"Ah, between Dr. Sable and Mr. Crowley, you mean?" Now that made more sense. Though why such a talented and good looking boy would find himself torn between a complete bastard and an obvious creep was utterly beyond her. It was probably something to do with the drugs.

He nodded. "So how do I decide between the life paths?"

"You're asking _me_?" Jenny knew that she probably wasn't the absolute worst person in the world to approach for advice on romantic matters. However, she strongly suspected that she was in the bottom tenth percentile of the population when it came to appropriate people to ask to opine on the matter. Not that she felt there was anything intrinsically wrong with marrying a man for money after spending three years as his then-closeted brother's girlfriend-for-hire, of course. It was just that most people didn't seem to share her practical mindedness when it came to matters of the heart.

"Of course." He nodded again, clearly puzzled as to why she would need clarification on this point.

"Well, I suppose you've got to think about the costs and benefits of each alternative. What the consequences are if you pick one versus what the consequences are if you pick the other."

His expression became thoughtful. Given that she'd previously only seen him with that sort of vacant look in his eye, Jenny found it a rather strange sight.

"I suppose...." he said, after a prolonged lapse into silence. "I suppose that if I choose to return to my previous function with Sable the benefits are that I won't lose my status and that Sable will be there. I admire him very much."

"And the costs?" she prompted.

"I currently feel no desire to continue with my function so I'd find fulfilling it very tedious." For several seconds he lapsed back into silence. "And I don't think that I could continue to associate with the demon Crowley."

She snorted at the description of the lawyer. At least the boy knew him for what he clearly was.

"Of course, if I chose to forsake my function entirely then I'd lose the right to fulfil it again. I'd lose my connection with Sable too. But then if I did leave I'd be free of the obligation. I can search for new ways of creating things beautiful to me."

Okay, so this clearly wasn't _just_ about choosing between the bastard lawyer and the creepy dietician. Well, that made things a bit easier; the world of employment was something she was rather more proficient at navigating than the world of intimate relationships.

"So essentially you're choosing between going back to a steady occupation that you've been doing for years and ditching it all to go travelling?"

"Yes," he said nodding slowly. "Yes, that's it exactly."

She snorted. "If it paid well, I'd stick with the boring, steady job until I could be certain of getting something better. I mean, hand in my notice immediately, without something lined up, and I could find myself having to scrub toilets for a living. But then, I'm an IT professional and you're an artist, so I suppose our tolerance for boredom varies quite a bit."

He shook his head. "If I commit to returning to my previous occupation I don't think I'd be able to leave it again without there being unpleasant consequences."

She gave a sympathetic grunt. "So you'd have to sign up to a long term contract then?"

"Yes, that would be a good way of putting it."

"Well, in that case I wouldn't do it. Frankly, I'd consider cleaning the bogs preferable to getting into something without a get-out clause. I don't suppose you could renegotiate the contract?"

He peered at her as if she was talking in a foreign language. "Renegotiate?"

"You know, get them to change the terms and conditions of employment to something a bit more palatable."

"How would I do that?"

She shrugged. "You know your employer better than I do."

For some reason he seemed rather amused by this statement.

"Look," she went on, "the way I see it, you can choose one alternative, you can choose the other or, if it's possible – and sometimes it isn't – you can try and hash out a third option. One thing's for certain though: if you're not willing to make the choice yourself in the timeframe given, somebody else will make it for you; and, believe me, that's always a shitty situation to be in."

"So it's one, the other, or something else," he murmured, as if this was somehow the most amazingly insightful thing he'd heard all week.

Jenny shook her head. He'd clearly been hitting the magic mushrooms and wacky baccy a little too hard if he was mistaking elementary logic for profundity. Well, perhaps now would be a good time to tell him about the job at Saint Delilah's. The kid certainly didn't seem to be in a fit state to look for any alternative avenues of employment himself.

"If you're looking for a bit of income to tide you over until you get things sorted, my big cousin in Manchester's looking for a decent artist to do a mural in the new VIP lounge of his nightclub."

"A mural?" he queried.

"Yeah, he wants somebody to paint an orgy scene on the wall facing the bar."

White looked intrigued.

"You'd have to commit to getting it done fairly quickly, but Luke's easy enough to work with so long as you don't give anybody any hassle and he pays well." She gave another shrug. "Anyway, take it or leave it. I just thought that it might give you chance to think things over away from Mr. Crowley and Dr. Sable."

For a while he lapsed into a state that seemed to be best described as 'dazed concentration'.

"I think I'd like to do it," he said eventually. "It's been a while since I've been to Manchester and from what I remember it's possible that I might find my interest in my function rekindled there."

"Nice one," she said, smiling. "I'll email Luke straight away to let him know that you're interested. I don't suppose you'd be able to set off tomorrow?"

He shrugged. "There's no reason for me to remain here. Being in a city again would be interesting... so many people to watch."

"Yeah, I miss being a city bird too. Though I'd take London over Manchester any day."

"Why do you stay here then? Willowholme's so small," he said. Strangely it sounded more like an honest question than a snarky comment.

"Too much tied up down here, I'm afraid: investments, friends, brothers-in-law."

He regarded at her with an expression almost akin to pity. "I'd hate to be tied to one place."

"Yeah well, I made my bed so now I've got to be a big girl and lie in it."

"But you're only five foot one and eighty pounds."

"Five foot two and eighty-seven pounds," she corrected. "And that's one of the many reasons I had to become a big girl faster than most."

"I don't understand," he said.

"You obviously didn't go to my high school."

He responded to this statement by looking utterly nonplussed.

"Never mind," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "I don't suppose you've got the transport to get to Manchester by yourself?"

"I could get another driver to take me there," he said. "I've been getting lots of offers of transportation from men ever since I ceased performing my function. I'm sure that one of them will be going in the right direction."

Jenny gaped. The guy was either truly off his head or he'd had an extremely sheltered upbringing. "I'll tell you what," she said. "I'll get you a train ticket."

-0-0-0-

"Thank you kindly, young Lady."

The pretty air hostess smiled as she set down the in-flight MEAL(TM) in front of Gelb, who immediately set about dissecting and investigating his Newtrition-assembled, nutrition-free supper with the plastic cutlery provided.

"These enzyme-resistant protein strings of Sable's really are quite enchanting to behold," he said with a wheezy laugh, as the young woman moved onto the next row of seats, seemingly oblivious to the fact that one of the passengers she'd just served had been a cheerful young avian.

Ernest gave a critical honk as he pecked at a small piece of un-digestible bread roll.

"Well, it is airline food," said Gelb. "I daresay that people would get suspicious if it tasted too good. Sable knows what he's doing."

With a shuffle of his feathers, Ernest pointed out that while there _was_ something distinctly ingenious about the chemical makeup of Dr. Sable's unfoods, the chemical composition of said enzyme-resistant protein strings also precluded the unfoods from rotting in a pestilence-friendly manner.

Gelb chuckled. "Only if you take a short term view, my friend," he said. "We might see a very slight reduction in Salmonella cases with chicken MEALS, this is very true, but there's nothing more susceptible to illness than a malnourished body. Especially a malnourished body that's also chronically obese."

"Quack," Ernest conceded.

"Yes, very clever indeed," said Gelb. "Then again Sable always has—"

He stopped mid sentence as he caught sight of a young, attractive South Asian man in a very expensive suit, sitting three rows in front on the other side of the aisle.

"Honk?" Ernest inquired, as the man – whose bright green eyes and dark brown skin made for an unusual, yet undeniably beautiful combination – caught sight of Gelb and gave a cheerful wave.

"That's Envy," explained Gelb, waving back with equal enthusiasm. "Embodiment of one of the Seven Deadlies. Haven't seen him for nigh on twenty years. You've never met one of the Sins before, have you, Ernest?"

Ernest gave a quack of confirmation. While he liked to think that he'd achieved a lot in his existence so far, he hadn't met many of Gelb's fellow personifications and embodiments.

"Nice chap. I think he's CEO of a massive software company at the moment. He and Wrath used to be practically joined at the hip, but they had a big falling out during the Sixties." He gave a rueful smile. "Last thing I heard, Wrath was involved in a very odd relationship with Faith, Hope and Charity, while Envy's been dallying with various mortals, Incubi and Succubae. At least, that's what Fortitude told me. Terrible gossip that one."

With a honk, Ernest expressed his surprise that any of the Virtues could be less than, well, _virtuous_.

"Ah well, the Sins and Virtues only need to exist to inspire the concept that they embody. I mean, take dear old Sloth for instance: in all the years I've known him, he's never demonstrated any more cruelty than your average human. Indeed, he's one of the most fair-minded entities I've ever met. And Envy's not the spiteful sort either. Oh, you might start to feel jealous and resentful the moment you notice how well he's wearing that exquisitely tailored suit or find out how superb his company's laboratories are, but there's never been any malice there."

"_Quack_?"

Gelb chuckled. "Even I'm not immune to the baser emotions, Ernest. I daresay you recall how wrathful I was when that cleaner at the university sterilised my favourite mug."

"Honk!"

"Well, it's very rare for me to be reduced to that kind of rage, but I _had_ been cultivating those bacteria for months. And I must admit that there have been times when I've felt the odd twinge of jealousy towards Carmine and Sable."

With a series of quacks and a ruffle of his feathers, Ernest opined that while the personifications of War and Famine were both obviously very good at what they did, neither of them could hold a candle to Gelb in terms of sheer creativity.

Gelb gave a wide cracked-lipped smile at his loyal companion. "Now come along Ernest, if you carry on like this dear Vanity's going to think you're trying to usurp her."

"Ah, my dear Professor Gelb, I've often thought that False Modesty should be added to our number."

Gelb looked up to see a smiling Envy standing to the side of them. Beaming, he held out his hand.

"I'm afraid that I'll have to decline your greeting, old friend," the Sin said, with an apologetic grin. "I still remember the itching you caused last time."

"Honk?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Duck, we Sins aren't wholly immune to the Professor's marvellous microbes; though I have recently noticed that many of the pharmaceuticals have been creating things that almost surpass them."

Gelb gave a hearty, if slightly gurgled, laugh. "Now, you're going to have to do better than that, Envy. I've been around too long for jealousy that petty."

"You know I can't help but try, Professor. It's in my nature."

"Yes, yes, I know. Of course, you might say that it would be in my nature to cough and give you an embarrassing skin condition."

Envy gave a sigh of mock hurt. "You can be so very cruel Professor."

"Just another Embodiment going about the business of existing."

"Though not just an Embodiment at the moment by all accounts," said Envy. "Fortitude's been keeping us all up to date on your return to Horsemanning."

"Yes, and I must admit that while retirement has its benefits, there is something to be said for being back in the metaphorical saddle."

"Will you be staying in Paris for long?"

Gelb shook his head. "Just passing through Charles de Gaulle on my way to Manchester. And you?"

"A flying visit also. I've got a meeting at my company's European headquarters tomorrow. Then I'll be heading over to Vatican City to meet with the other Sins."

He raised an eyebrow. "A rather ironic place for a convention, don't you think."

"We've heard that the Pope's due to add several new Sins to our ever expanding number later this year. We're trying to find out what they'll be. Lust thinks that Genetic Engineering will soon be joining our number, while Sloth favours Celebrity Worship."

"Any other guesses?"

As Envy opened his mouth to respond, the young air stewardess came up behind him and politely cleared her throat.

"Could you return to your seat please, Sir?" she said. "You're blocking the aisle."

"Sorry."

As Envy reluctantly headed back to his seat, Gelb sighed. The Sin really did wear that exquisite suit with more panache than he ever could.

Gelb groaned.

Envy turned and grinned.

"Very well," he conceded. "You got that one over on me."

The Sin's grin widened.

"Honk?" Ernest queried once Envy had returned to his seat.

"Of course," Gelb chuckled. "He'll have a bit of a sore throat tomorrow."

"Honk!"

"Why thank you. I thought that it was quite nicely done too, if I may say so myself."


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Thanks to everybody who reviewed the last chapter, sorry that the updating process seems to be taking so long. Those familiar with Weiss Kreuz might recognise a cameo or two in the last scene.

-0-0-

Crowley stared unblinkingly at the ceiling.

He'd been staring at it unblinkingly for over an hour now, slitted pupils examining the slight discolorations on the paintwork as his mind continuously replayed highlights of the last forty-eight hours in high definition mental imaging.

It was, he knew, rather stupid to mope like this – for that was what he was doing, even if he would prefer to think of it as 'being contemplative'. When you got down to it, all that had happened to him was a standard ill advised sexual encounter with a wholly inappropriate individual. Nothing that he hadn't done before; and certainly nothing that had ever left him feeling this confused. Well, maybe 'confused' was quite the right word. 'Ambivalent' was possibly a little better, but even that didn't quite capture the exact range of emotions he was currently experiencing.

Laughable as it seemed he was worried about Pollution. It was silly, of course. Crowley was more than aware of that. Especially given that it wasn't as though the entity's existence was actually threatened in any way. However, as much as it made him inwardly squirm to admit it, the fact remained that, in some skewed way, Pollution reminded Crowley of himself just before the Fall: questioning his assigned lot in existence and teetering on the brink of leaving it all behind for something else.

Strange as it might seem, Crowley had never truly regretted taking his saunter vaguely downwards. Oh sure, at first there had been the dread and the terror and the rapid realisation that Lucifer was – contrary to all of his haughty proclamations – winging it like mad. However, once things had settled down and he'd somehow found himself slithering to earth he'd very quickly grown to like being Crowley. So he couldn't help but wonder if White would be better off forsaking his G- _Someone_ given role.

But then again Crowley was Crowley and Pollution was Pollution. What worked for the snake might not work for the personification of filth.

He snorted, or maybe it was just him that kind of liked the idea of having Pollution around; the idea of knowing somebody who shared a marginally similar experience.

Aziraphale clearly thought that everybody would be better off if Pollution returned to his role. Crowley wondered if it would be better or worse for Pollution himself.

His reverie was interrupted by a rap on the door. Expecting one of the hotel staff he gave a disgruntled hiss.

"Come in," he muttered, reluctantly propping himself up.

Rather than one of the nosy cleaners or half-witted porters however a pale, lithe and deeply dishevelled being walked through the door.

"You!" He exclaimed, unable to summon a more sensible response.

"Yes," replied Pollution, as he ambled towards the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. As he drew nearer Crowley swallowed involuntarily swallowed. There was just something about that scent of ozone and solvent that clung to the pale Horseman. It wasn't what you could call a pleasant smell, but it did things to him that weren't directly a product of the fumes themselves. "I wanted to see you before I go."

"Go?" His heart sank. So there it was. Pollution had made his choice and it meant the end of whatever it was that had been happening between them. He knew really shouldn't feel quite so disappointed, Pollution had only insinuated himself into Crowley's existence less than a week ago and that was far too short a time for any serious attachment to develop. Still, the fact that the rational part of him knew this didn't prevent that unpleasant gut churning feeling from assailing him.

"I'm going somewhere else for the rest of the week. I need to think about things."

Crowley exhaled, knowing full well that he really shouldn't be experiencing quite such a pronounced wave of relief at this, but not quite able to suppress it.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Away."

This suggested that he either didn't know or wasn't prepared to say. Either way, the demon got the sense that it wouldn't be a good idea to press the issue. Even so....

"You have to make a choice at the end of the week, don't you?"

Pollution's grey eyes narrowed a little. "Yes."

"Do you know what you'll... I mean, how you're going to... you know, decide?"

"No."

Fixed with a less than friendly stare, Crowley shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, all right, I suppose it's...er, goodbye then." Inwardly he cursed himself for his utterly inarticulate response, yet couldn't seem to summon up anything more coherent. Then, catching him totally off-balance, Pollution's glare transformed into a smile and the entity leant down and pressed cyanide sweet lips against the demon's own.

Crowley, who really hadn't been prepared for this turn of events, quickly found his head swimming in a pleasant chemical haze he found that he didn't want to will away.

The linear progression of events occurring directly after this point was not something that the demon would be able to string together. However, the slide of skin against skin and the taste of the chemical tinged tongue, were sensory fragments that would stick in his mind for a very long time.

When it was over demon and Horseperson collapsed exhausted onto bed sheets, feverish sleep claiming them within seconds.

By the time demon awoke however, the Horseperson would be gone. The oil stained sheets and acrid scent of burning plastic the only signs that he'd been there.

-0-0-

Jenny wasn't surprised when White arrived late at the spot outside the library where they'd agreed to meet. He came across as the type who thought that punctuality was some kind of traditional eastern medicine.

"Have you got everything?" she asked, as he got into the passenger seat of the car. She pulled a face as she took in just how grimy his clothing was, and inwardly berated herself for not bringing the seat covers.

White, who wasn't carrying any luggage, nodded in reply to the question.

"I'll take you to Rushton station," she said, as the Rover pulled out of the car park. "There's a branch line that stops here in Willowholme, but the train only seems to actually turn up once in a blue moon. You can go from there to Exeter to Birmingham to Manchester."

He didn't respond, opting instead to look out of the window, a faraway look on his face.

"Rough night?" she enquired.

"I was with someone," he replied.

She snorted. "Which one?"

"The demon. I'd already said goodbye to Sable, though he won't be pleased when he finds out that I've gone somewhere. He'll try to find me, but this time he won't succeed, not until I let him."

"Ah." She shook her head, but said no more. The boy's relationships were quite obviously fucked up beyond belief, but there was no point saying so. In her experience telling people that their love interest was a deranged sociopath, possessive bastard or a pathological liar only made them more determined to stick with them.

They therefore lapsed into a silence that lasted until they reached the station: a well maintained old fashioned affair with hanging baskets, wrought iron fencing and bits of Victorian railway paraphernalia about the place. Many called it picturesque. Jenny had always found it a bit twee.

"You don't like them, do you?" said White, out of the blue as they waited for the man behind the ticket office counter to finish dealing with the woman in front of them, who was in the process of bitterly and vociferously denouncing the price of a day return to Plymouth.

"Who?"

"Sable and the demon."

"No," she replied honestly. "Not really. I like a good looking bastard as much as the next woman, but there's bastards and there's _bastards_. And as far as I'm concerned those two come across as almighty _bastards_."

For some reason White seemed to find this mildly amusing.

"There's more to them than you can perceive," he said.

"_That_," she said, "is what they all say." She shook her head again. There really was one born every minute.

He didn't respond, opting merely to watch intently as she purchased his rail ticket with her credit card. It was really quite disconcerting.

"It's an odd substance, isn't it," he said, as she handed over the small rectangle of card.

"What is?" she asked.

"Plastic."

"It is?"

"So malleable at first, but so difficult to transform into anything but waste once set."

"If you say so." She shrugged, feeling rather strongly that it was rather too early in the morning for philosophical bullshit.

"I've done so much with it that it's become monotonous and tedious, but I still remember how much it all meant at the time. Sable always told me it was some of my best work."

"Oh." Realisation dawned. "You're talking about your – what's the phrase? _'Creative medium?'_"

"Yes. All of my old favourites are numb to me now. Nothing but nostalgia. I'm looking for something else."

"What, the new plastic?" She couldn't help but snort.

"No, the new thing that isn't plastic." He smiled. It was a smile rather more knowing than any she'd seen him wear before in their admittedly short acquaintance.

She would have been sorely tempted to pass comment on how he seemed to be trying to pass deliberate obtuseness off as profundity, if it hadn't been for a voice on the tannoy announcing the imminent arrival of the delayed sixteen minutes past eight to Exeter at Platform Three.

"Looks like yours is here now," she said.

He nodded. "Thank you for the ticket."

Uncomfortable at the idea of coming across as overly altruistic she made a dismissive gesture. "It's nothing. My cousin needs an artist and you're good at what you do."

"Yes," he said in a voice not so much boastful as contemplative. "I always was." With that he turned and headed for the platform, leaving a perplexed and slightly intrigued Head of IT behind him. She encountered many a stoned, starving and thoroughly pretentious artiste in her life, but none had been as odd as White. _They_ were ten a penny and tedious as hell once the first flush of amusement at their painfully affected eccentricities was over with. White though threw her just a little off balance (a state that she prided herself on rarely falling into). He didn't seem to be affecting any of it; a state that she found herself unable to put down entirely to his apparent habit of being doped up to the eyeballs on whatever strange concoction he was taking. It made her wonder if maybe, just maybe he was the one that the trust fund creatives that hung around Peybury Hall were so desperately trying to imitate.

"Goodbye White," she muttered at his retreating back, wondering if maybe her cousin Luke would be able to make more sense of him than she could. He'd always been more of a people person than she had.

-0-0-

At around the same as White stepped on to his train at Rushton Station, a fair-haired, male-shaped being, dressed in a suit that wouldn't have look out of place in a 1930s period drama stepped into the cavernous depths of the lending library. His mission: to send a message to the populace of Willowholme that wanton book mistreatment just wasn't on. He'd already made a start, of course, but he knew that one instance of irate orangutan intervention just wasn't enough for some of the more persistent offenders.

Aziraphale was not, as a general rule, a smite-prone sort of angel. However, there was something about the sad helplessness of a torn hardback that never failed to bring out his inner righteous avenger.

-0-0-

The train journey from Rushton to Manchester was long, uneventful and dull. However, as he alighted the train at Piccadilly Station White found himself mesmerised by the crowds of people milling about the platforms. There was something wonderfully chaotic about the scene: the bodies squeezing past each other, walking hither and yon with no discernable overall trend. Yet despite the apparent chaos he knew that each of the people who made up the throng must have their own agenda, their own direction. He'd seen scenes like it several thousand times before, of course, but he'd never taken time to dwell on the delightful juxtaposition of purpose and chaos before.

Not knowing what his new employer looked like, but having been told that he'd meet him at the station, he ambled along the platform until he spotted a man holding a large piece of card with the word WHITE written on in malformed block capitals.

"I'm White," he said, gesturing to the card.

"Hello White," said the man cheerfully. "I'm Luke Mackenzie, little Jenny's big cousin."

Luke Mackenzie was, in almost every physical way, the antithesis of Jenny Lowry: a tall, broad, dark-haired, tanned and relentlessly vital man, with a friendly face and a cheerful smile.

"You the artist then?" he said, extending his hand.

"Yes," said White, shaking it. "I'm White."

"Just White?"

White nodded. "Just White. Though I've been Chalky, Weiss, Blanco and Albus in the past."

The man gave a deep, gravelly laugh. "Jenny wasn't joking when she said you was one of them genuine flighty artist types. But that's exactly what I need: a real artist."

"For the mural?"

"That's right," he said. "See, I've got all these ideas in my head, but I haven't got a clue about how to get them down on paper – well, not so much paper in this case as the back wall. So what I need is somebody who can, you know, get the general gist of what I'm looking for and create something a bit special. Do you think that you can do that?"

White nodded. He hadn't, to his mind created anything particularly special of late – though the humans around him seemed to have been inexplicably impressed by the absent minded little doodles he'd left around Willowholme. However, the idea of focussing all of his attention onto the creation of an image did appeal to him, even if the subject matter of 'A Roman Orgy' was rather banal.

Luke's smile widened. "Excellent, excellent I've got a bunch of magazine cuttings and photos you might like to use for ideas."

He shook his head. Other people's images just wouldn't cut it. "Just tell me what you want to see in it and I'll create it for you."

The man gave a hearty laugh, obviously happy with this sentiment. "Tell you what," he said, "we can head on over to Saint Del's and I can show you the lounge."

White indicated that he thought favourably of this idea, and Luke, after clapping him on the back, led him towards the exit, going into a jovial tangent about the bands he had booked for the coming week.

As they walked towards the nearest Metro stop (finding somewhere to park the car in the centre was, according to Luke, 'an absolute bloody nightmare'), White looked around at the architecture that surrounded them. Manchester centre had changed somewhat since his last visit: the overt griminess had been replaced by an almost pristine sea of plate glass. The shiny newness had a slick veneer that obscured the waste and toxins and environmental destruction that had gone into producing it. A year ago this fact would have sent him into a state of orgasmic rapture. Now however it merely struck him as faintly interesting.

Still, for the first time in months he found himself eager to start a new project, even if it wasn't in his usual line.

-0-0-

Doctor Gelb and his feathered comrade stepped out the taxi that had taken them from the airport to the centre of Manchester. Gelb tipping the driver generously with a ten pound note covered in Noroviruses and Ernest hoping, as he always did, that this might be the point at which H5N1 made its jump big jump from carrier duck to human contagion.

As Ernest looked around him though, he couldn't help but note how much cleaner the city was than Gelb's descriptions of the place had led him to believe. Oh, there was certainly the usual grime and littering and odd patch of drunk's vomit. However, the place seemed conspicuously low on truly festering rubbish piles and open sewers. He intimated as much to his friend and teacher."

"As I've found to my cost, time and tide of progress wait for no personification. But don't by disheartened, my young friend, I've also found that it's often the case that the more polished the exterior the more rotten the underbelly. Sometimes the right vector of transmission is difficult to spot, but since my retirement I've found that that never fails to make finding it all the more satisfying."

"Honk?"

"Oh, I don't a fixed itinerary as of yet, thought MRSA and antibiotic resistant TB are high on the list, but I thought we could start by relaxing in one of the city's many fine restaurants. Nothing like spreading a little Listeria to perk up the appetite, eh?"

Ernest vocally concurred (though he privately considered himself more a of a Salmonella sort of duck), and the pair set of for a likely looking side street.

-0-0-

While the exterior of Saint Delilah's was at first glance much the same as most old city centre churches, the interior was – even White with his limited knowledge of human life outside the realm of ecological disaster could see – decorated in a style that could best be described as Renaissance cathedral meets Elizabethan-dungeon meets Bordello. In the main dance area (once the space where the Sunday morning congregation would sit) there was a stage, a DJ booth and four bars.

Luke Mackenzie seemed inordinately proud of his creation.

"So here's Maxine, Anoushka and Kylie, they're what you might call our house dancers. There's Emma and Juliette too, but they ain't in yet." Luke cracked a smile at the three glitter festooned yet barely clothed women who were sitting next to one of the bars. "Say hello to White, ladies, he's here to paint our new V.I.P lounge."

The three women gave White a friendly wave. Kylie also furnished him a look very similar to the ones Henry Peybury had given him.

"And at the bar at the moment we've got Shanice and Joe."

The two bartenders gave him a perfunctory nod each, seemingly more interested in their glass polishing than White.

"Scotch on the rocks for me, if you please," ordered Luke, before looking enquiringly at White. "And you?"

"Just a glass of water," said White.

Luke laughed and clapped him on the back. "Water? Bleedin' hell, you're as bad as my baby cousin, you are. Though for all she talks about having a delicate tummy these days I've seen her chug down half a bottle of vodka and take no harm from it.... well, apart from the massive hangover. But, as I always say, what's life without a few hangovers."

Within the space of a minute the drinks were produced and Luke led him through an archway and into a bare, yet very spacious area.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Luke expectantly.

White looked around him. The walls – the lower sections at least – had been covered with a layer of even white plaster and the floors were smooth grey stone.

"It's white," he said softly, reaching out to touch the surface. "Clean. Untouched. So very... _pure_."

"Exactly," said Luke. "Which is why I need you to make it dirty." He grinned. "I want you, my artist friend, to take this virgin piece of wall and tart it up with the best orgy scene you can imagine."

For a while White just stared at the blank space in front of him. Then a slow smile began to spread across his face. Oddly, it was not the dazed, euphoric smile he usually gave before embarking on a project, but it was filled with anticipatory delight. Ideas were already stirring in his mind, images he longed sear onto the untouched expanse. The subject matter might not have been that which he would have chosen, but he felt as though he was being offered a chance to make his mark on the world in a new way.

"Yes," he said eventually, voice slightly gasping. "I can do that."

He drew back his hand from the plaster. A small sheen of grease glinted in the place where he'd touched. He was already making his mark.

"Excellent," said Luke. The man looked as though he was about to enthuse some more when something caught his eye and a look of surprise overtook him. "Bleedin' hell you've turned it blue!"

White blinked, then followed the man's gaze, which led to the glass of water in his hand. Only it wasn't just water anymore, there was something else in it. He hadn't done it intentionally, but he did to admit that it was a very pretty shade of toxic blue. Taking a sip, he noted that the sharp, sour, and unrelentingly chemical taste was pleasant on the tongue, but not _quite_ satisfying.

"Didn't know you could do magic tricks too," the man said, clapping him on the back once again; a move that sent a small splash of the stuff onto the pristine floor. In a few hours time there'd be a small indent and a light green mark where the corrosive cocktail reacted with the stone.

"Magic?" he murmured. "Yes, I suppose you could call it that. It's a very petty thing though. I've turned whole rivers much more vibrant colours."

Most people tended to react to statements such as this with by peering at him strangely, backing away a little or issuing an uneasy laugh. Luke Mackenzie though – possessing the easy-going demeanour and unshakable self-confidence that being six foot two and built like a brick wall can impart to a man – just gave another grin. "Next you'll be telling me you're a musician too."

White quirked his head and considered this. "I've never really tried," he said. Not bothering to mention that he'd never drawn anything more than a technical diagram until just a few days ago. He supposed that to humans the crackling of a forest fire or the clanking of an overturned oil tanker wouldn't really count as music. Though at the time they'd been some of the sweetest symphonies he'd ever heard.

"Good to hear, that is," said Luke. "You wouldn't believe how many people I get pestering me for a chance to play here. Not that I'm unwilling to give the new talent a chance, mind you. But most of them are heavy on the new and low on the talent, if you know what I mean."

"I like new things," said White, who had no particular feelings one way or the other about talent or the lack of it.

"Well, you'll get to meet more than a few if you stick around long enough." The big man glanced at his watch. "Anyhow, I need to be heading up to my office in a minute. I've got to go and talk to the Japanese kid about the lighting for the Goil gig. Jenny said that haven't got anywhere to stay organised, so I thought I could lend you my old crash pad in the cellars. Got a new place in town now, so I don't need it. Bit basic, mind you: the telly's only got the regular freeview, but it's comfortable enough."

White indicated that he had no objection to the idea.

"Excellent." Luke, yanked a bundle of keys from his trouser pocket and fumbled around with them until a large silver one was pulled free. "There you are," he said, extending it to White, who accepted it. "Just go through the door next to the bar – the staff only one – and down the steps. It's the second door on the right. You can't miss it, it's got the Page 3 Girl collage I did when I was inside stuck on it." He then, as if a thought had just struck him he untangle another key from the ring and proffered it. "Use that one to open the staff entrance too for when you're coming and going. It'll save you having to wait around for one of the staff to let you in and out."

White took the key and slipped it into pocket of his – now very worn looking – jeans.

"Anyway, make yourself at home. There isn't any dress code 'cept on theme nights so you can stick around for the opening tonight if you like. I'll tell the kids at the bar to give you anything you want." With that, Luke turned and left, leaving White looking at his blank – yet now ever so slightly sullied – canvas.

-0-0-

Dagon looked at the seething mass of humanity milling around the evening square and shuddered.

It was all so _disorganised_.

Oh, you got seething, chaotic masses of souls Downstairs in some of the Torments Sections, but Dagon rarely had to visit those parts of the Pit personally. Usually he could get away with sending one of his auditing imps when circumstances required a quick going over of the books; but even when his presence was required (usually due to some irate Junior Viscount devouring one of said auditing imps in a fit of pique over criticisms of their paperwork handling skills) he knew that he'd soon be returning to his domain of filing cabinets and carefully ordered parchment. His present situation on the other hand offered no such comforts. He'd been given a body, strict instructions to find out exactly what was going on with Pollution and a speedy dispatch to earth.

He gave a weary groan. This wasn't his territory. The whole business of tempting and meddling in the affairs of mankind was, as far as Dagon had always been concerned, something that happened at one step removed. He was the Seventh Circle's top bureaucrat and perfectly content to remain so.

Still, there wasn't really much he could do about his predicament apart from carry out Beelzebub's orders as quickly and efficiently as he could. It really had been a mistake to push for Hastur and Ligur's involvement like that. As satisfying as it had felt at the time, he really should have known better than to make himself the one responsible for sending them Upstairs. If he'd merely planted the idea of a tempting campaign and then left the bigwigs to consider the options for themselves they probably would have decided on the same course of action. Hastur did, after all, have a long established habit of making boasts about his tempting abilities. Yes, he'd been foolishly uncircumspect and was now paying the price.

He glanced around him again. The general movement of population around him seem to involve those spilling out of shops and those spilling into bars (from which they would later spill out in a very real and literal way onto the pavement outside), but there were an awful lot who seemed to be standing around doing not very much. How irritatingly unproductive. He knew on a philosophical level that sloth was a sin and therefore to be encouraged in humanity, but to his mind you couldn't command the march of evil forwards when everybody was standing around staring at their shoes. It was bad enough when his underling down in the Seventh Circle hung around the blood cooler for too long. Not that he didn't understand the need for infernal gossip to have space to percolate, of course (especially gossip concerning certain Dukes). However, there did come a time when conversation lapsed from the misdeeds of the powerful and infamous to banalities such as the best place to have a picnic in the Wood of Suicides; at which point it became necessary to give very pointed accounts as to the fate of filing minions who spent too much time dilly dallying.

It had been a while since Dagon had been obligated to ascend to the earth's surface, and while some things were inevitably the same (the spilling out onto the pavements for instance), things were far sleeker and shinier than he remembered. He'd been sent to Manchester because that was where the presently un-retired Pestilence was generally sensed to be; and questioning the embodiment of sickness about the situation seemed like a good place to start. However, though he could instinctively 'feel' that the reinstated Horseman was in the general vicinity, it was impossible to pinpoint his exact location, and Dagon wasn't quite certain where to start his search. There were the usual suspects, of course: the water supplies, the food stores, the hospitals. The city streets however seemed to be rather less cluttered with putrefying waste than they had last time Dagon had been up and about in England, so it was unlikely he'd find him hanging around the gutters.

As he stood on the periphery of the milling crowd he mentally debated whether to start with the nearest big fish (shudder) and meat markets or head for the hospitals. The former, he suspected, would be Pestilence's choice if he was going in for a quick and easy scheme, whereas the latter would probably denote a more long term venture. He therefore resolved to start by searching the former in the early hours of the morning – when the catches and carcasses would be delivered – before moving onto the hospitals if he couldn't find him there.

Of course, there was the problem of what to do in the mean time. He supposed he could always try a bit of tempting. It was the done thing, after all. His marks of choice when obligated to participate in the soul damnation game tended to be the bankers and high ranking civil servants that one found more in capital cities such as London. However, he knew he could probably find a few senior accountants and administrators of reasonable rank to further corrupt amongst the throngs out on the town. He didn't relish the prospect, but he supposed that there was nothing else for it.

With a sigh that had faint overtones of 'death rattle' he turned and headed out of the square and down into one of the more affluently sleazy looking side streets. Had he waited for a minute or two longer he might have spotted the stern, golden haired and not quite human form that emerged from the restaurant on the other side of the square.

-0-0-

"Honk."

"Oh yes, it is a nice place, isn't it. Beautiful decor in the seating area, vermin infested mass of rot in the kitchens. What more could a personification and his companion ask for, eh Ernest?"

"Quack?"

"Well, that too. But I'm sure a full scale epidemic is around the corner, we just need to keep working at it."

As Ernest had remarked, it was a lovely restaurant with a pleasant convivial sort of atmosphere and several biohazards in the food preparation area: the perfect place for the personification of Gelb and his avian accomplice to while away the evening. "I thought that we could start early tomorrow with a little light work at a few of the local supermarkets and then move on to a nice Ears, Nose and Throat ward I've heard about. Nothing like helping along a few MRSA mutations before lunch, eh?"

Ernest agreed that this was a fine plan, yet expressed some curiosity as to what they were going to do once they'd finished their dinner. The ever keen drake suggested that he should head off alone and attempt, once again, to set the H5N1 amongst the pigeons, whilst Gelb visited a few more eateries and late night takeaways and work on that new strain of listeria he'd just been talking about.

Gelb gave a fond chuckle. "Your keenness does you credit my young friend, but I thought that we might take a break and enjoy the night, just pass along a few bugs and sniffles as the fancy strikes."

The duck looked at him quizzically.

"Ah Ermest, it's all too easy to get so caught up in the minutia of your function that you forget to occasionally sit back and take a moment and appreciate the wondrous and complex nature of the world we inhabit. I've always found that it does a being good to do a little sitting and watching."

As his young associate paused to consider the wisdom of this statement, Gelb took a moment to brush away the apple cores and sticky sweet wrappers that seemed to have materialised on the table during the last few minutes. The tenacious little blighters seemed to be following him around everywhere today. It could just be coincidence, or it could be something far more interesting.

"You know, Ernest, I'm beginning to wonder if a little of Pollution's function's starting to stick to me."

Ernest quacked and twitched his neck enquiringly.

"Well, it's just that this heap of litter seems to be following me around."

"Honk?"

"I suppose it could be useful. Decomposition's always been a great friend of mine. However, I'm not sure that this all this plastic's much use."

"Quack, quack!"

"Ah yes, 'if it's there, make the most of it'. I can see what you're saying, but there's really not much I can do with a crisp packet aside from coat it with one of the hardier Noroviruses and hope that somebody picks it up. Then again, I suppose that if people see a road full of discarded plastic carrier bags they might be more likely to toss down a few perishables that might attract the rats."

Ernest gave a satisfied quack, clearly pleased to have made his point.

Gelb gave another chuckle. "I suppose that the master must be willing to heed the apprentice's advice when appropriate."

The – now ever so slightly smug – avian looked as though he was about to do a bit of friendly crowing, when something outside the window caught his eye. Gelb followed his gaze until it settled upon a harassed and rather grey skinned figure in a smart, if rather nondescript, business suit. Though the individual would appear, to the average mortal observer, to be a man in his late-thirties, Gelb could tell that he was much much older.

"Well, well, well, there was a face I wasn't expecting to see here."

His feathered companion, still understandably wary of demons after the trouble Hastur and Ligur had given them, asked who the diabolic individual was.

"Dagon," Gelb elaborated. "He's one of the senior administrators Downstairs. Doesn't stalk the earth much these days, though it's common knowledge that he has an ongoing feud with the angel Amitiel. Rather more intelligent than the two oafs we encountered on the boat, but somewhat less powerful."

"Honk?"

"What do I think he's doing here? My guess would be that Beelzebub, Lilith or Moloch's sent him up here to come and find out what's happening with the new boy."

Ernest enquired as to whether Gelb intended to talk with him.

"Oh, I daresay I'll end up having a word with him sometime soon, but not tonight."

When Ernest asked why not, Gelb gave a cracked lipped smile and directed his young friend's attention to the severe, golden haired male-shaped individual who walking purposefully down the side street where the restaurant was located.

The drake's eyes widened.

"Yes, Ernest, that is the angel Amitiel.

Ernest intimated that he'd be happier if they moved to watch from a safe distance, a suggestion with which Pestilence readily concurred.

"Not that I couldn't handle the pair of them, of course," he added. "But it would be rather tiresome."

And with that the personification of Pestilence (now with a suspected case of mild Pollution) and his avian accomplice paid for their meals and left the place via the kitchen door. Both taking care to open the fridges and knock over the waste bins on the way. Every little helped, after all.

-0-0-

Lights flashed. Noise resounded. A heavy fog of cigarette smoke lay thick in the air, intermingling with the almost equally pungent smells of dry ice, stale perfume and freshly shed sweat.

White sat alone in a dark corner watching the bodies on the dance floor jerk and writhe. He could tell which of the bodies was in the thrall of which chemical, see the crackling, electric auras of those who'd taken an amphetamine hit, and the colourful, quick-shifting haze of the ecstasy fanatics.

There was something beautifully chaotic about it all: the way that the loud, discordant beat of the music whipped them up into a frenzy. He decided then and there that he was going to take the essence of it and put it into the mural. Luke Mackenzie had only specified that he should paint an orgy scene, after all.

Glancing away from the dance floor for a moment, he caught sight of the club's jovial owner leaning against a pillar and talking, drink in hand, to a very pale man in bondage trousers and an eye-patch and an East Asia boy whom a concerned individual might have felt looked a couple of years too young to be frequenting nightclubs. He could tell that neither of them was entirely human, but couldn't discern whether their respective anomalous antecedents had been angelic or demonic in nature. Luke, catching sight of White, gestured for him to come over. White, leaving his now bright green and – as one hapless drink snatcher would soon find out – potently hallucinogenic glass of liquid on the table, complied.

Though the noise was far higher than that recommended by the health and safety brigade White, possessing hearing far more robust than any human's, easily managed to discern from Luke's cheerful shouting and gesticulating that he was being introduced to Mr. Naoe and Mr. Farfarello, two security specialists working for a band called Goil. The former – the Asian boy – greeted him with a nod and a few seconds of curious scrutiny, while the latter gave a manic grin and muttered something about apocalypses and plague made flesh.

"Oh, but you're thinking of my predecessor," said White. "I'm Pollution, Pestilence retired. And the Apocalypse was cancelled by the Antichrist."

Mr. Farfarello threw back his head and gave a keening laugh, while the young Mr. Naoe just sighed and rolled his eyes.

White got the distinct impression that the pale man actually believed him.

"White's doing the mural for the new VIP area," Luke shouted.

Mr. Naoe gave a polite nod of acknowledgement. "Farfarello sometimes thinks of himself as an artist too," he said in a Japanese accent.

He looked at the pale man. "What is it that you create?" he asked.

"A mess, usually," Mr. Naoe muttered, in tones that would have been inaudible to just about anybody else.

"Affronts to God," the pale man said.

Vaguely interested, White enquired what this involved.

Luke Mackenzie, suddenly looking a tad queasy, excused himself.

The pale man turned to the Japanese boy and gave another lunatic grin. "Ah, looks like he's still a bit upset about the severed finger incident."

The boy rolled his eyes and walked away.

"So, you're really one of the Four then?" the man said.

"Yes," White replied, a sudden and unexpected churning sensation rose in his gut as the knowledge that he might not be so by this time next week was forced back to the forefront of his mind.

Mr. Farfarello peered at him inquisitively for a long moment, before drawing back a little. "The Guilty One says you're telling the truth."

"The Guilty One?" he queried, not unduly affected by the fact that this individual could perceive so much about him. Madmen often saw further into his nature than the sane, under whose perceptual radar he had, until very recently, always been very successful at slipping.

"He talks to me in my head," the man explained.

"Oh." White wasn't in any way fazed by this. Over the last few decades he'd had a hand in creating many substances that created just this sort of effect; though he could tell that the man he was conversing with wasn't actually under the influence of any of them.

"Is it being in the thrall of God's wretched games that ails you?" There seemed to be a note of sympathy in his voice.

White shrugged his shoulders. He seldom thought of God, who, though ultimately responsible for his creation by virtue of the fact that he'd created humanity, had never directly interacted with any of them apart from Azrael.

"I came from the minds of men: their thoughts and deeds gave me form and function, but I've grown bored of the function."

"You should do something else then. Forsake duty, obey your whims. It's the only way to confound Him."

White quirked his head. Aside from a grain of the vaguest sort of gratitude for being given the chance to exist, he didn't have any feelings one way or the other about the divine creator. Until very recently his perpetual tendency to live in the moment had precluded any deep thoughts of a philosophical or theological nature. This man however seemed to have a Noah's Ark sized chip on his shoulder. "I know a demon who'd say that trying to confound God is a pointless endeavour."

The man glowered in a way that would have sent 99.999% of humans running away screaming. White however, knew that he could take him out with a single poisonous breath. An ability – it at once struck him – that he'd no longer have should, come the end of the week, he decide to forsake his station. Before his mind had chance to shift to hitherto unconsidered matters of practicality however there was a burst of nasal laughter from behind him. He turned to see a figure with a shock of long orange hair approach. This being, though certainly in human form, had a distinct air of the infernal about him.

"An imp out of the pit?" White's lips twitched upwards a little. He didn't, as a general rule, pay much attention to infernal affairs. It had never been a subject that he had felt had any relevance to the series of wonderful, destructive nows that had always made up his existence. However, he did know that, as a general rule, imps weren't allowed to spread their mischief about the world without demonic supervision.

The bright-haired imp grinned like a Cheshire cat. "Ja, I escaped."

"And they didn't send anyone to fetch you back?"

The imp laughed. "I've always been too much trouble. 'Let him be inflicted on humanity', the Dukes said, and so I was." He then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Of course, they punished me." The smile returned wider than ever. "At least they thought they did."

Amused, White scrutinised the creature. His sense of fashion was certainly very loud. The imp was clearly some kind of chaos herald. "What did they do to you?"

"They opened the minds of all humanity to me."

He involuntarily involuntarily winced. He may have sprung from the (rather scummy and detergent-laden) foam of humanity's sea of collective consciousness, but the thought of hearing all of their mental chatter all of the time was definitely not a pleasant one.

"It's not so bad most of the time," the imp said. "Some minds taste a lot better than others."

White listened curiously as the imp went on to expound upon exactly what made for a pleasant tasting mind, before his attention was drawn back to the pounding music and the writhing bodies on the dance floor.

"You could whip them up into a frenzy," the imp said, clearly excited at the prospect. "I can whisper into their minds, but you can make them lose them."

The idea was not wholly without appeal and the pale Horseman considered it. It _would_ be wonderful to take the intensity of it all up to hitherto unseen levels of euphoric, chemical induced frenzy. But he felt as though he wanted more than that. To be part of the chaos, rather than just the facilitator.

With the imp and the madman watching him intently he smiled, turned and headed for the dance floor, body exuding several exotic compounds that even cutting edge science would be hard pressed to fully analyse and identify.

Fifteen minute later the place was in an uproar of colour, sound and movement.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: Thank you to everybody who commented on the last chapter. Sorry that this one was so long coming.

-0-

Sable was annoyed. He was also, for want of a more fitting word for the feelings of a Horseperson of the Apocalypse, rather, well... _hurt_. When White had said that he needed some more time to think, he'd been confident that this would involve him going away for half a day before coming fully to his senses and seeking out Sable. Hell, he'd been more than confident, he'd been certain. Now though it looked like he'd just upped and left without a word.

He blamed Crowley. The demon had clearly been filling the boy's head with doubts and nonsense for days. Playing on White's current crisis of purpose for all that it was worth. The serpent had no idea what it was to be one of the Four. No understanding of White's unique gifts and unique purpose or what they meant. He quite obviously saw little more than a beautiful body with some appealing personality quirks. Not that the body wasn't beautiful of or the personality quirks unappealing, of course. But there was more to him than that. Much more.

It was with these thoughts and feelings crashing through his usually unruffled and razor sharp mind that he accosted the demon in the middle of one of Willowholme's more touristy pubs, where he was in the process of trying to convince a middle manager from Hull that the key to promotion was blackmailing his boss. When he saw Sable heading purposefully towards him he promptly blanched.

"You!" he exclaimed, taking a step backwards.

Sensing danger – and experiencing a sudden and inexplicable craving for a Burger Lord MEAL(TM) – the middle manager from Hull muttered something about time getting on before heading quickly towards the exit.

Sable wasted no time in grasping hold of the demon by the lapels and fixing him with a cold glare.

"Where is he?" the Horseman demanded.

"Who?" From the way the word was yelped Sable couldn't quite tell if the demon was genuinely confused or playing dumb. Either way, it did little to help his mood.

"White!"

"You think that I know?" The demon visibly bristled, annoyance starting to mitigate some of the fear in his expression. "He just told me he was going away for a while."

"Nothing else? He didn't tell you where he was going?" Sable knew that he'd lost his cool and was very nearly shouting, but found that he didn't care.

"No." The demon gave a sharp hiss as Sable's grasp tightened.

Sable, much to his dissatisfaction, got the sense that Crowley was telling the truth and relaxed his grip.

"He said he was going somewhere to think about things," the demon said, before adding: "I don't think that he wants to see either of us at the moment."

Experiencing a very sharp stab of anger Sable once again tightened his grasp.

"Do not presume to know him, little demon."

Crowley seemed to war with himself as to whether to respond, his mouth opening and shutting a couple of times, before, rather sensibly, deciding that in this instance discretion was the better part of survival.

In the absence of further provocation Sable's fury began to abate, leaving him acutely aware that his behaviour was not, at this moment, in keeping with the manner in which he generally preferred to present his function. With a parting glower he released the demon and headed, in even measured steps, out of the door.

If the demon didn't know anything of worth he'd have to find other ways to track his erstwhile colleague down.

-0-

As he looked up at the whitewashed ceiling, the personification of Pollution tried to centre his thoughts. It proved more difficult that he might have anticipated. The fragmented memories of the previous evening were still pulsating within him: the noise, the lights, the feverish, thrashing bodies that had surrounded him.

It had been so _wonderful_.

The only biodegradable fly in the metaphorical ointment had been the way that that the music's beat had been so... so _predictable_. White had never much been one for routine and predictability. Well, apart, of course, from that which he needed to adhere to in order to induce greater unpredictability and cataclysmic disruption to routine. The sudden flood of panic, activity and all out discord when somebody finally noticed that one of the innocuous little dials on the wall had quietly ticked over from 'normal' to 'critical' was all the more delightful when it followed a period of protracted complacency. However, the fact that he'd been able to tell what just about every note, shout, beep, twang, crash and shriek would be before it emanated from the speakers had been disappointing.

He sighed and, curiously loath to move from the lumpy mattress, let his eyes wander around the room. It was exactly the kind of room that one would expect somebody such as Luke Mackenzie to inhabit. Even with his limited knowledge of what humans did when they weren't causing, facilitating or reacting to environmental destruction, White knew this. The decor was comprised in equal parts of battered yet functional furniture, soft-porn themed objects d'art and (barely used) gadgetry that had been cutting edge (and within the space of a few months old news) two years ago; and the books, magazine and DVDs that resided in piles around the periphery of the room strongly hinted at an enthusiastically heterosexual man's man who, despite an obvious dedication to traditionally masculine pursuits, maintained a well developed whimsical side.

Amidst the clutter of centrefolds and page three girls on the walls there was the odd photograph. Most depicted Luke Mackenzie and company at various ages in varying stages of inebriation; however there were others, pixelated computer printouts of old photos, which featured a scowling, sickly, redheaded girl child who White could only assume to be his cousin Jenny. Why Mackenzie would put the latter on his walls when they so obviously clashed with his aesthetic preferences puzzled White. The man seemed to enjoy depictions of people having a good time (whether that good time involved a pint of lager or – in the case of Miss October 2006 – a strategically placed pumpkin), yet the young Jenny always looked at the camera as if it was doing her some kind of mortal insult.

With a twinge, White recalled that Sable sometime adopted a very similar expression when disturbed in the middle of a moment of contemplation. It was a thought that may have led to a train of such thoughts rushing through his mind if a heavy knock at the door.

"You decent?" the voice of his new employer called out.

Very sure that he'd never been decent in his existence, White hauled himself off the bed and into a standing position, surprised, once again, at how difficult and uncomfortable the act was. He then shuffled over to the door and turned the handle, whereupon he was immediately presented with the jovial face of Luke Mackenzie.

"Good morning," White ventured.

"Good afternoon, you mean?" said Luke, cracking a smile.

_Afternoon_, surely his consciousness couldn't have lapsed for that long?

"Not to worry, not to worry," reassured Luke, seeming to pick up on his surprise. "I'm not bothered about the hours you keep as long as you get the mural done on time. Besides, you and that Schuldig certainly helped liven the place up last night. I don't think I've ever seen the crowds get so... y'know, frenzied. Mind you, part of that probably had something to do with what they were all smoking and snorting beforehand, you get some weird stuff going round these days. A couple of months back we had some bird who got high as a kite and went around telling everybody she was Charity made flesh but that she could do a bloody good impersonation of Lust." He shook his head. "Anyway, what do you think of the room? Not exactly salubrious, I know, but I've always reckoned it was comfy enough."

"I have no complaints," said White. "Though I was puzzled by the photographs of your cousin."

Luke looked perplexed. "What, the ones of Jen? Don't see what's so strange about them." His voice became defensive. "Okay, she don't look so well in a lot of them, but she was sick a lot as a kid. You know, asthma and stuff."

Aware that it probably wouldn't be a good idea to take partial credit for the increase in childhood asthma during the last century right now, White shook his head and pointed out the incongruity between those photographs and the rest of the decor. This seemed to remove the defensiveness and return Luke to a state of cordiality.

"Oh, well, they've got, whatsitcalled, sentimental value, haven't they? Took them with my first camera when I was nine." He smiled in manner that was a lot more childlike that the knowing grin he'd flashed before. "She hated having her photo, always had done, likely always will, but she'd sit still and let me take a picture because I was her favourite cousin. But then we were always more like brother and sister than cousins really. She never had a big brother of her own, you see." Something in the way he said the last sentence intimated a firmly held belief that not having an older brother figure was a most unfortunate condition to be in.

This was baffling to White who had never really paid much attention to familial relationships beyond the delightful observation that children were often the key to getting adults to purchase unnecessary non-biodegradable products swaddled in layers of similarly unnecessary, non-biodegradable packaging of a hazardous to wildlife nature. Sable had often spoken about the concept of the 'ideal family' and how it could be used to sell almost anything, but White had never really paid much attention to this, preferring to let others take care of the advertising and promotions. He supposed that the closest thing he had to anything resembling what the humans thought of as family were the other Horsepersons. However, designating them as such would require the term to be stretched beyond the limits of its meaning. They were co-workers, fellow personifications.

Yet the thought of being forever dismissed from that group caused a sudden feeling of terror to surge inside of him. His stomach began to churn the same way that it had done just before Adam Young had temporarily returned him to the minds of men.

"You all right?" said Luke. "You're looking a bit sick there. I've got some Alka Seltzer upstairs if you want it."

Somehow managing to force the feelings of panic away he shook his head. "It think," he said slowly, "that I'd like to start work on the mural now."

"But you've not got any of the paint yet."

"That doesn't matter," said White. "I won't need it."

For a moment Luke looked as though he was about to protest, but then, perhaps reminding himself that he clearly wasn't dealing with an 'artist' rather than a common-or-garden example of humanity, he shrugged his shoulders.

"Fair enough. You know where you're working. Just let one of the girls know if there's anything you want. I'm off out for an hour or two: got a few people who owe me money. I'll be back by this evening to see how you're getting on though."

White nodded, hoping that the talkative human wouldn't try and engage him in further conversation, after being hit with the palpable realisation that he could soon be forever ejected from the only group of which he'd ever been a part of, he was feeling the distinct need to distract himself.

Fortunately for White, Luke seemed disinclined to further conversation and, giving a quick word of goodbye headed up the stairs to the ground floor.

A few moments later White followed, letting images and possibilities drown out the unpleasant sense of dread.

-0-

Anybody close enough to see the expression of the young man with the curly blond hair, who was taking what appeared to be a solitary walk along the Summerstorm Cliffs would have judged him to be deep in thought.

They wouldn't have been wrong.

_"Am I doing the right thing?"_ was not a question that tended to prey on Adam Young's mind and conscience much more than it did any other eighteen to nineteen year old human male's. The decision he'd made at age eleven had meant that the collective woes of humanity were no more his responsibility than that of any of other human (even if having Pepper and Brian around meant that typical human apathy wasn't a trait in which he was ever really allowed to indulge for very long). However being, well, _Adam Young_ meant that he had a certain, if largely self-imposed, responsibility to maintain the board on which the game of humanity played itself out. Until now this had not involve anything more than 'having a word' with the odd angel or demon who was in danger of 'going too far'. The 'Pollution Situation' though, that was different. He knew that humanity's free will could only be maintained if the Horsepersons retained their status as one-way repositories of humanity's darker inclinations. Any deviation from this led to the kind of two-way feedback that had caused the whole Green Fever incident.

He knew that giving the ultimatum to Pollution had been more than the _right_ thing to do. It was the only thing that could be done to prevent what, not to put too fine a point on it, would otherwise be a cosmic disaster. He could feel that Pestilence's return to the fray had led to an abatement of the situation. The human predisposition for environmental destruction was currently being expressed through a surge in disease and decay. It couldn't hold though, not for any substantial period of time. Pestilence's foetid star hadn't quite risen again, and Pollution's definitely hadn't faded. Somebody had to perform White's assigned function, even if it wasn't White himself.

No, Adam Young was certainly not questioning whether he was doing the right thing on that count. He felt bad about choice he was forcing upon White, but he couldn't see any alternative that didn't involve the complete reordering of Creation.

What was preying on his mind however was the subject of Warlock Dowling. The more he found out about the boy who, in another universe, would have been the son of Mr. and Mrs. Young, the more he got the distinct and unerring impression that sending him back to America had been an unintentionally cruel thing to do. The magazine interview that Leon Waters the would-be rock star had furnished Brian with that morning had suggested that the other young man's descent into sex, drugs and hardcore death metal had its roots in his unhappy teenage years, which had been unwillingly spent at an upmarket school in Washington DC. At least, that was what Adam got the general impression that the now infamous base guitarist was trying to convey. Warlock was rather too prone to launching into prolonged and surreal tangents about aliens wielding magic light swords to give anything that approached a coherent reply.

Adam felt rather guilty about the whole thing. It wasn't so much that he felt responsible for the other young man's choices per se. Those were, of course, Warlock's own. It was more the fact that if Adam hadn't attempted to be kind he might have made different ones, ones that didn't lead to carpet lint snorting and tropical frog licking (the only part of the interview that could have been construed as half-way lucid was Warlock's vivid description of the psychotropic properties of the bodily secretions of the pan-Amazonian Red Darter Tree Frog).

Now he was now trying to think of ways to make up, in at least some small way, for the trouble his well-intentioned gift may have caused, and it was dawning on him that a second gift could very well have a similar impact to the first. Of course, that didn't just go for the gifts he used his unique powers to provide, but the ones that involved going into a shop, browsing the shelves and picking something he thought the giftee might like. It wasn't a problem with the Them, he could guess with a good deal of accuracy what they'd like and what they would and what the likely impact of any present would be. However, with people you didn't really know (even if they were technically your first friends), it seemed that you could never be sure.

It was all so uncertain.

ONE OF THE INESCAPABLE DISADVANTAGES OF LIFE AS A HUMAN.

Not startled by The Voice, but not really expecting it either, Adam turned to see the tall, grey and deliberately indistinct form of Azrael standing to his side.

"I wasn't asking for your advice," he said firmly.

I WAS NOT SEEKING TO PROVIDE IT.

He quirked his head. "Are you here to talk about White?"

NO, I'M MERELY HERE.

Adam sighed. Interacting with Azrael could be a trying experience at times. Few entity's were capable of being quite so simultaneously cryptic and straightforward as he was (though Adam himself was, of course, one of them).

SOMETHING I HAD NOT ANTICIPATED IS HAPPENING. WHITE'S FUNCTION IS BEING TRANSFERED.

He nodded; he'd sensed the sudden lessening of tension the previous evening. Outbreaks of Green Fever seemed to have subsided and humanity's pollution potential was flowing along the usual pathways of cause and effect.

"It'll all be sorted out by the end of the week, one way or another," he said.

Azrael didn't respond, but there was something about his lack of response that suggested a lack of certainty on this point.

"You don't think that it will?"

THE SITUATION HAS, TO THIS POINT, BEEN UNPRECEDENTED. IT MAY CONTINUE TO BE UNPRECEDENTED.

He considered this. It was true; he hadn't expected Pestilence's return to the field to have quite the effect that it had, but he didn't see how any of it changed the fact that in less than seven days time White would either have returned to his designated role or forsaken it entirely. In the former case things would return to their usual state (as much as Pollution could ever be described as having a usual state), in the latter there would be a new Pollution who would fulfil the same purpose as the last.

"Is there something you're not telling me?" he said eventually.

THERE IS A GREAT DEAL THAT I HAVE NOT TOLD YOU. HOWEVER, WITH REGARD TO THE MATTER AT HAND YOUR AWARENESS OF EVENTS IS CLOSE TO MY OWN.

"Then why assume that things won't go as expected."

BECAUSE I HAVE ENCOUNTERED THE UNEXPECTED BEFORE. Though Azrael's form was currently somewhat amorphous and indistinct, Adam knew that Creation's Shadow was fixing him with a pointed look.

Before he could respond Azrael faded from sight, leaving him perplexed and staring out to sea. Adam had never quite been able to get the measure of Azrael (which was fair enough as Adam knew for a fact that Azrael had never been able to get the measure of him) and he wasn't quite sure if he'd been trying to warn him, lecture him or merely pass comment.

As clouds drifted out over the horizon, he wondered if Creation's Shadow was lonely: set apart, as he was, from the rest of the universe by the nature of his function.

It was a sad thought, and one that became bittersweet as Adam saw Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale running along the headland towards him. He waved to them, glad that he was Adam Young, even if it meant that he sometimes did the wrong thing.

-0-

As White looked at the wall before him all thoughts of the future, of the choice he had less than a week to make, faded from his immediate consciousness. The sense of dread that had overcome him a moment ago gave way to anticipation as he contemplated the blank expanse.

_Where to begin?_

'An orgy scene', Luke Mackenzie had said. Even with his comparatively limited awareness of human proclivities White knew that it was a tired and rather predictable request; but it was one that he could work with. All he needed was a spark of _something_.

As he continued to stare the images in his mind's eye came to life: fizzling and sparking with an energy that White hadn't experienced for some time. Tiny fragments of inspiration flashing and glimmering in his stream of consciousness. Yet none of it was quite _there_. Not big enough. No striking enough. A herd of pretty, petty visuals with no real impact.

Then his thoughts began to drift to the previous night: the light, the noise, the throbbing, desperate sea of bodies.

It was certainly a start. That all consuming sense of frenzy would make worthy backdrop. Yet what could form the centrepiece? The focal point? He needed something that could convey desire. No, not just convey, that would be too small, he needed an image that could _embody_ it. Of course, none of the old beauties and sirens would work. Aside from feeling so old and tired, nuclear disasters and oil spills really didn't fit the 'orgy scene' bill (though there was something mildly amusing about the thought of using Chernobyl as a background for the piece). No, he needed something that filled him with all-consuming heat: an object of lust and longing.

_An object of lust and longing?_

It was then that it struck him. An image that right there, right then epitomised erotic yearning. He couldn't put it on the wall for the whole of Creation to see though, that would just be crossing a line that he really shouldn't.

Then again, he'd already crossed a few lines that week.

_It could be bad,_ part of him thought, the part that had always stopped him from goading Sable beyond certain limits (and goading Carmine in general).

_Yes, but it would be wonderful,_ replied another part; the part that had basked in the distorted rainbows of oil on water and the stark, minimalist beauty of a patch of scorched rainforest.

There was a moment of indecision.

Then White slowly raised a finger and pressed it onto the wall.

As a spider web of red spread across the white plaster he experienced a deep and visceral jolt of something that was half excitement and half wonderful, piquant fear.

They were going to be so angry, but he didn't think that he could stop himself.

-0-

If you'd have asked Gelb why he decided to head down the series of back alleys and side-streets that he did that afternoon, he'd have told you that it was all down to that special Horsepersonly sense he was endowed with guiding him towards pastures new and uncharted. If you'd have pressed the matter, he would have very probably confessed that it was more to do with the fact that he was endeavouring to avoid unnecessary contact with the demon Dagon and the angel Amitiel. Granted, neither of them posed a real threat to him, but he really didn't want the bother of having to 'deal' with them. The incident with Hastur and Ligur had been irksome enough, and while he credited both the heavenly bureaucrat and the infernal civil servant with rather more sense than those two sorry wastes of sentience (and he used the word 'sentience' in the loosest possible manner) he knew that they could become a most unwelcome distraction.

Still, as he and Ernest strolled along the backstreets, Gelb pointing out some of the more interesting microbes that resided in the air vents and collections of refuse that resided behind the back of the shops, bars and restaurants, he couldn't help but feel as though something was drawing him in. If pressed to describe the sensation he would have paused, thought for a moment and then told you – eyes misting over with an old entity's nostalgia – that it was a very pale imitation of the sensation he'd experienced when he'd been pulled towards Egypt at the start of the Ten Plagues. It had been a pull exerted not just by cosmic demand, but by the presence Sable and Carmine calling out to him

Great days. Lice, flies and boils everywhere, cattle dropping left right and centre with an ingenious little bacterial condition that he'd never been quite able to replicate. A sense of camaraderie the Four of them hadn't really shared since. You couldn't live in the past though; he'd worked that out when antibiotics had driven him into retirement. Well, you could, but what was the point just sitting there mulling over the glory days when there was a whole wide world happening around you.

"You know," he confided to Ernest, "I get the distinct feeling that we're about to be involved with something _Significant_." He took care to verbally capitalise and italicise the last word. _Significant_ was after all a slightly different matter to plain old significant.

Ernest, who had been lost in thought on the subject of how he could improve Avian Influenza transmission rates looked up, not quite sure whether to be excited or perturbed. With an anxious quack he enquired as to whether Gelb thought that this _Significant_ something would involve any more fireballs being launched in his direction by disgruntled demons.

"I shouldn't think so," Gelb reassured him. "Unlike those two half-wits on the boat I strongly suspect that Dagon knows better than to try and cross me. On the other hand I also strongly suspect that he and that angelic nemesis of his may end up being bothersome, but I doubt that they'll represent any threat to your safety, my feathered friend. No, I'm getting the feeling that I – and by association you – are about to become embroiled in some Horsepersonly business."

Puzzled, Ernest intimated that he had thought that that was what they were doing already.

"Ah yes," Gelb said. "But there's Horsepersonly business and _Horsepersonly Business_."

"Honk?" Ernest politely enquired, feeling it best to be completely sure.

"Well, the latter of course," Gelb replied.

As they passed a particularly virulent air vent in which a few interesting mutations were multiplying, Gelb paused to take samples. "Sometimes you find the most interesting little specimens developing all by themselves," he remarked, placing the swabs he'd gathered in a couple of the pre-prepared Petri dishes he made a point of carrying around with him.

Ernest assented that the world was filled with strange and wonderful possibilities and that he was very glad that Gelb had given him the opportunity to see so much of it.

Gelb smiled, his normally cracked lips having taken on a certain clear sheen. "Ah, yes, but you are a duck of rare qualities and special talents."

Delighted by the compliment, Ernest straitened his neck, puffed out his breast and proudly surveyed the alley. It was then that he noticed something peculiar: Gelb's shoes seemed to be leaving a trail of dark, tarry footprints wherever he walked. Ernest, having his head closer to the ground, knew that he would have remembered if they'd ambled across a patch of drying tarmac or anything of that nature. Feeling duty bound to alert his friend and master to the situation, he gave a pointed quack and a quick ruffle of the wings.

Looking down, Gelb eyed the trail curiously. He then crouched down, ran his finger through the residue left by the nearest set of prints and sniffed it.

"Petrochemical derivative," he said, after a moment's contemplation. "Not a microbe in sight, though get enough of it into the water supply and it'd leave populace about forty percent more susceptible to a few of my more interesting gastrointestinal bugs."

"Quack, quack?"

"Yes, I believe you're right. Some more aspects of his function must be transferring over to me. I daresay it's because our purposes are so similar: I befoul and rot the body, he befouls and rots the planet."

In all probability Gelb would have drifted into one of his frequent philosophical musings at this point, if he hadn't suddenly detected a familiar non-human presence in the vicinity.

"No, it can't be!" He exclaimed, before giving an amused snort.

Ernest looked at him enquiringly.

"An acquaintance of mine," he explained, pointing to a figure that seemed to have materialised at the point where the alley opened onto a cobbled side street. The figure was male and in possession of a head of long orange hair and a sense of fashion that was, even by duck standards, brash bordering on tasteless. "I was certain that they would have dragged him back to Hell after the attempted summoning debacle."

Seeing that Ernest was perplexed, he decided to elaborate. "He's an Imp who managed to escape from the Pit. Well, I say escape; it's widely suspected that he was actively encouraged to leave. He leaps from escapade to escapade without a care in Creation and never seems to tire of his little tricks." He chuckled. "He drove Sable to the point of fury once; turning up in that village with the cart full of magic bread. Of course, there were only four villagers left by the end of the week, but by then the ball was entirely in Carmine's court."

Then, seeing that the Imp was gesturing for him to approach, Gelb obliged, taking care to walk at a pace that Ernest wouldn't struggle to match. His avian companion had, after all, obliged him with a keen and interested audience during their sojourn through the back streets of central Manchester.

"Guilty," he said, proffering a pockmarked hand.

The Imp grinned, but declined the handshake, aware from experience that being and infernal being was no protection against pestilence when one was stalking the earth.

"Gelb, mein Freund. Es ist gut Sie zu Sehen."

Gelb smiled. "Good to see you to, you tricky little reprobate, haven't seen you since the whole Japanese brouhaha. How's existence treating you?"

The Imp shrugged. "Always I hear their thoughts: sometimes they taste like honey, sometimes they make me want to claw my insides out with my bare hands." He peered at Ernest. "I didn't know you had a pet duck."

"This is my dear friend and junior associate Avian Flu Ernest. We only met a few years ago. He's been helping me with some of my more experimental work."

"Oh, the bird flu." The Imp made a dismissive gesture. Though Gelb wasn't offended by this, Ernest couldn't help but be a little affronted. He'd been trying so hard to perfect the transmission from avian to human. "Anyway, I sensed your foetid presence and thought that I'd come and see if you were as pox-ridden as ever. It seems as though it's my week for running into your kind."

"Oh?" Gelb didn't bother to try and conceal his curiosity.

"Last night I met your successor in a nightclub." A Cheshire cat grin spread over his features. "It was such fun."

"White? You've met White?"

"It was hard to miss him. He told me about his new occupation," he gave Gelb a meaningful look, "... and his dissatisfaction with the old one."

"He has a new occupation?"

"Ja, he's painting murals on a nightclub wall."

Gelb was not, by and large, a being who shocked easily. When you've seen it all and done most of it (as he prided himself on doing) there really wasn't very much that could throw you off balance. It was therefore testament to this fact that his immediate response to this revelation was to tilt his head and engage in a moment of thoughtfulness.

"Well, that's certainly different," he said. "Though I suppose that it's no stranger than any of my little hobbies. Did he mention why he was doing it?"

The Imp shrugged. "He said something at one point about wanting to create a spectacle."

It made sense. Gelb had always been something of a showman and it seemed logical that his successor would inherit at least some of that tendency. Unlike his predecessor, whose had always been the sociable type, White had wandered through the mortal world unnoticed and unseen. However, his endeavours had led to some of the most incredible, eye-catching spectacles in history. Collectively humanity tended to recoil from disease, ignore starvation and ogle bloodshed; yet show them a scorched forest or petrochemical fireball and for a few seconds they'd stare in morbid rapture. Of course, it all became passé to them after those first few seconds, but by then there was always another display on the way. Or at least there had been until White had decided that he didn't want to be himself any more. It seemed to Gelb that the youngest Horseman had developed an attention span to match that of the mind's he'd sprung from.

"Do you know where he is now?" asked Gelb.

The Imp smirked, but said nothing.

Gelb chuckled. "Now come along, Guilty, you do remember what happened the last time you held out on me."

The Imp visibly winced; a reaction that made Ernest almost wish that he was capable of snickering.

"Ach, there's no need to be like that," Guilty said, his expression half-way between a scowl and a pout.

"And there's no need for you to tease an aged, run-down old thing like me."

This bit of self-description on Gelb's part seemed to reinstate the Imp's amusement. "An old thing like you? You think I don't remember what happened at the sushi restaurant in Osaka?"

Not familiar with that particular anecdote, Ernest honked inquisitively.

"I'll tell you when you're older," said Gelb.

Feeling slightly slighted Ernest made a mental note to work on carrying himself in a more mature and drakely manner.

"The last time I saw him he was at Saint Delilah's," said the Imp. "Whether he's still there or not I don't know; but that's where he's doing the mural."

"Saint..._ Deliah's_?" Gelb queried.

"It's a converted church," The Imp explained. "The owner doesn't have as much imagination as he thinks he does." He made a dismissive gesture. "Anyway, I can't stand around here all day; Crawford wants me to me to find a certain Abyssinian."

"Crawford? Didn't think that you'd still be carrying on with that know-it-all, stick-up-the-backside fortune teller.""

Guilty shrugged. "He has his charms."

The, without saying goodbye the Imp departed, leaping onto a nearby wall and then from the wall onto the lowest of the roofs.

"He was Spring Heeled Jack once, you know," Gelb remarked conversationally, as he vanished from sight. "Well, one of them, at least. He was also the original Pied Piper, but he always gets a little embarrassed when that one's brought up."

Ernest honked in a mildly derisive manner.

"Oh, I think that you're being a little unfair. He can't help how he's made, after all. The Imps are the lowest of the Lower Down."

For a moment Gelb lapsed into thoughtful silence, then, looking out into the street opening out before them he cleared his throat.

"So, my faithful assistant, what do you say to meeting my successor?"

Ernest indicated that he had no objection to the plan, as long as it didn't involve him ending up covered in oil slick.

"Well, I'm sure that I can see to that." Gelb smiled. He wasn't quite sure of the reception he'd receive from the boy, but he'd be lying through his cavity-ridden teeth if he said that he wasn't curious.


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Sorry about taking so long to update.

-0-

There were people staring him.

White really wasn't sure why.

The first few, a man in overalls and two orange-tanned women in cleaner's tabards, had put their curious heads around the door shortly after he'd started on the wall, lightly marking out a rough background. They'd stared in opened mouthed fascination at the way the vivid, toxic colours seeped from his finger tips on the white plaster, occasionally making some noise of surprise. He hadn't paid much attention to them, just carried on caressing the canvas, images and ideas now flowing freely through his mind. He was aware of the gasps and the mutterings and the arrival of new humans, all of whom proceeded to stand and watch in amazement as the artist worked.

He remembered that they had stared at him at the party too, when he'd sketched Sable on the wall. This time though there was none of the ribaldry, shouts or noisy cheer, just a quiet, reverential sort of gawping. It was, he thought, strange that they should stare at him in the act of creation now when their eyes had passed over him so readily during Three Mile Island and the Braer Disaster; but then he supposed that that was because he'd been in sync with their minds at the time, a proxy for all of the greedy, dirty and wasteful impulses they tended not to think about until it was too late. Right now though he was something different; something that they didn't want to ignore.

Though initially unsettling it wasn't unpleasant. It was almost as though he was being appreciated. Aside from Sable nobody had really, truly seemed to appreciate his creations until he'd started drawing on walls and park benches. Oh, Carmine had sometimes told him how much she appreciated his work, but it had been an appreciation of the side-effects of his work rather than the actual results. She'd relished the chaos he'd created, the seeds of discord that his works had sewn. However, she'd never looked upon his beautiful disasters themselves with anything other than a detached sort of professional respect, and even that had been the respect of a senior partner for the work junior partner. He had no delusions that that was how she saw him: how she and Sable both saw him. He was the upstart kid who'd arisen to replace their old and much revered comrade. As for Gelb himself, on the occasions that they'd come into contact he'd got the sense that the personification of pestilence felt a certain fondness towards him; but then again Gelb seemed to be fond of a lot of entities. Unsurprising really, given that he was the progenitor of all the world's 'social diseases'.

As he continued to paint with his fingertips, allowing the images of frenzy and erotic yearning in his mind to project themselves out into the world, he noticed that few of the watchers were starting to sniffle and sneeze. It was not an intrusive sound, but it did strike him as a little odd. The substances flowing through him and onto the plaster were highly toxic if consumed orally, but they weren't supposed to cause any irritation of the respiratory tract. If they did then he'd have never managed to convince the toy companies that they were safe to paint items for one to four year olds with.

He carried on painting as the frequency of the sneezes increased, pausing only when one of the spectators – a pale girl dressed in black – broke into an interesting sounding cough. Watching her give and apologetic shrug, before scurrying away, hand clutching at her mouth, he briefly mused on how he'd once managed to get two thousand people to simultaneously do that. He'd been in U.S.S.R at the time, working in an unobtrusive clerical position some state owned coal mine, but the chance to pay a visit to that fertiliser plant had just been too good to resist. The sight of so many simultaneously struggling for air had given him the most pleasant sense of well being. Synchronicity was not usually his thing, but in that instance it had had a certain soothing quality.

A few minutes later, most of the assembled onlookers had disappeared, some coughing, some retching and a few others furiously itching. It was an event strange enough to draw his focus from the creation blossoming under his fingertips and look around.

As the last four stragglers, who seemed to have only succumbed to mild sneezing took this as their cue to leave, White became palpably aware of a very old yet very... _invigorated_ presence in the vicinity and drawing nearer. Surely it couldn't be...

There was the sound of a hacking cough, followed by cheerful, gurgling laugh and – rather peculiarly – the sound of a duck honking; and White watched as a familiar form ambled on in.

"Gelb?" Had he been working with paintbrushes as oppose to his fingers he would have doubtless dropped them in surprise. As it was he merely gaped, stared and then burst into hysterical laughter. Not so much because the personification of pestilence's sudden appearance was in any way funny, but because his corporeal form seemed to find it to be the best way of expressing his surprise.

Gelb's lips cracked and wept blood as the old Horseman broke into a delighted grin.

"White, my boy, good to see you."

Not bothered by the fact that White was covered in toxic paint, the personification of Pestilence embraced him.

-0-

Dagon looked around him and fought the urge to hunch in on himself. He was the Master or Madness, Lord of the Files, Under Duke of the Seventh Torment, Developer of the Eight Point Imp Appraisal Scheme and he was blessed if he was about to start cowering in the face of a scent wielding perfume counter assistant.

The trouble was that right now there wasn't so much 'a' scent wielding perfume counter assistant as a whole herd of them, each seemingly determined to anoint him with some wretched, overpowering, concoction that bore no resemblance to his usual, understated choice of 'soot with a hint of molten gold'. The awful creatures didn't seem perturbed by his cold glares and threats to dispatch them to the Malebolge, clearly determined to cover him with the stench of various 'pour hommes'.

He really hadn't wanted to enter the department store, with its disorganised crowds, nonsensical floor plan and inefficient escalator system. However, his search for Pestilence had compelled him to embark upon a systematic search of the central Manchester area. If he concentrated he could sense the tendrils of decay that were emanating out from the old Horseman, who had, of late, returned to the (both real and metaphorical) saddle; yet he was unable ascertain his precise location.

It was utterly maddening, yet at the same time perfectly understandable. On the earthly plane the Horsepersons had more sway than any infernal creature other than the Prince of Darkness himself, and even then Lucifer held no direct dominion over them. The Horsepersons could not be exactly located by ordinary diabolical and divine devices unless they wanted to be. This was the mortal realm and those who represented the mortal condition held sway here. Hence, while it was possible to pick up on the trail of virulence and decay Pestilence was leaving in his wake, it wasn't possible for the Under Duke to simply scry out for him.

Dagon had not anticipated that his task would be easy. However, neither had he anticipated that it would involve quite so many bottle wielding humans.

"Endeavour: For Him?" a determined looking brunette said, holding aloft an oddly shaped vial that put him in mind of the bottles on rack of potions Duke Belphegor kept in his lair. Dagon only just managed to avoid coming into contact with the overpoweringly herbal smelling spray that did, in fact, bear a remarkable resemblance to Belphegor's preferred musk.

Espying an escalator some fifty feet away, he made a dash (or rather a brisk yet reasonably dignified walk) towards it. He wasn't quite sure whether it would represent an escape or a route to greater peril, but he was willing to take the chance. The level he arrived upon was, to his relief, ladieswear, and the roaming sales assistants clearly saw no need to pursue what they assumed to be a misplaced male. One of them was forward enough to helpfully point to the other side of floor and declare it to be the menswear section, but thankfully this was as far as the interaction went.

Unlike the perfume market downstairs, Dagon could not sense the residue of Pestilence here. It seemed that the personification had not ascended past the ground floor of the building.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, the Under Duke of the Seventh Torment headed towards a door marked Emergency Exit Only. To his relief, the door led to an empty stairway (which he descended with great haste), which in turn led to a door opening out into a rather nondescript alleyway.

As he paused to catch his breath and purge the wretched, cloying perfumes from his assumed form, Dagon once again sensed the wake of Pestilence's presence. Far stronger here than it had been inside. He was getting close. Very close.

-0-

Crowley knew from the moment he stepped into the library that something had changed. It wasn't so much that the place had been altered in any physical sense (though it did seem that many of the more badly damaged books had been removed from public view); rather that a completely different atmosphere seemed to be permeating the area.

Looking around him, he noted that, while there were a fair number of patrons about, they were being remarkably quiet and timid. He also couldn't help but notice that rather than standing around looking as though they were school children waiting to be released for a particularly long and boring physics lesson, the library assistants were bustling about, performing what he could only assume were their designated jobs. Well, all of the library assistants apart from Leon Waters, that was. The young man was slouched, IPod playing, in his usual position at the front desk.

Leon gave a nod and a smile of acknowledgement as he saw Crowley, who returned the smile.

"All change at the library?" he said, gesturing around him.

Taking the earphones out, Leon gave a snort. "You could say that. That Fell bloke's been stirring things up. I'm not sure how he does it, but he's been getting Isobel and Howard to start telling people what to do. You know, actually ordering them to be quiet and stuff. Howard even told me to get a move on with the stacking this morning."

"And did you?"

Leon shrugged. "For a while. He tried it with Jenny too, thought that he could demand that she change a few of the IT policies to make certain applications more accessible." He smirked. "That went well for him."

"Why, what did she say?"

"Pointed out that she could walk out of here right now and straight into a job paying twice as much at her brother-in-laws place, but that they'd struggle to find a half-way competent IT specialist who'd be willing to put up with this place for the peanuts they pay her." He suddenly frowned. "I saw this spreadsheet in Isobel's office once and I know for a fact that she gets more a year than anybody else here, so I don't know where she gets off on saying its peanuts."

Crowley couldn't help but smile at the tang of envy that suddenly hung in the air. He hadn't even had to do any prodding.

"Well, when you're rich and infamous I'm sure that her forty-five thousand pounds per annum will sound like peanuts."

Leon gaped. "Forty-five? I thought it was thirty-five."

Crowley, deciding that he could definitely push this one further, considered whether jealousy would be upped more by a reference to the revenue that the Head of IT was receiving from the holiday chalets she rented out or by a mention of how much her Google shares had grown since she first acquired them. His deliberations were, however, interrupted by the sound of a quiet, yet somehow very audible, cough.

The demon turned to see his angelic counterpart staring disapprovingly at him.

"I hope, dear fellow, that you're not distracting this young gentlemen from his work."

Crowley looked back at Leon and made a show of rolling his eyes. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said, gesturing for his mark to move on. Leon, clearly believing himself to be in on something, grinned and returned the eye-roll, before shuffling towards the horror shelves.

"I do wish that you wouldn't do that," said Aziraphale, with what Crowley felt to be a rather too exaggerated sigh.

"Hello. Demon here."

"Yes, but he's so young and impressionable."

"Exactly," agreed Crowley. "Hungry for fame and fortune and all the rest of it."

Aziraphale eyed him disapprovingly.

"Look, I'm a reasonable sort of demon, leave me to corrupt Waters and I'll let you have a crack at converting the Head of IT. You've met her, I think: scrawny, redheaded thing, abnormally protective of the computers."

"Dear boy, there are some humans upon whom neither your demonic wiles nor my heavenly entreaties have any lasting effect. I'm starting suspect that Mrs. Lowry may be one of them. Young Master Waters on the other hand is–"

"Definitely mine. I saw him first. Anyway, fair's fair, you've been trying to guide to Peybury towards the light, so to speak."

The angel sighed, seeming to concede the battle, if not the war. "You're here to discuss Mr. Goode, I assume."

Crowley nodded. "Any luck?"

"Still rather reluctant to leave Devonshire, I'm afraid. Although, he does seem quite enthusiastic about Henry Peybury's new plan to found a charitable foundation in the capital. Mr. Peybury's a man with a great many good intentions"

"A great many intentions to deflower Goode."

Aziraphale tsked. "I thought we had an agreement about dreadful puns."

"I said I wouldn't actively pursue them. You handed that one to me on a plate. And besides, we all know the route Downstairs is paved with good intentions."

"Yes, but they don't invariably lead there."

"Well, we'll have to hope that they lead to London. I'm not sure how much more of this bucolic backwater I can take."

"Oh, come along, it's not as bad as all that. This library's rather interesting... and there's a fascinating little antique shop in the centre."

"Would you really want to spend the remainder of Howard Goode's natural life here?"

For a moment the angel seemed to consider the prospect. The slight blanching of his face that then occurred was all the response that Crowley needed.

"Exactly. It might be an interesting place to visit, but nobody in their right mind would actually want to live here. The level of twee is almost toxic." As the last of these words left his mouth he involuntarily winced at the sudden reminder of White. He'd been trying to put the Horseperson out of his mind. To concentrate on the temptations at hand. But it didn't take much to redirect his thoughts in that direction.

"Any news?" Aziraphale asked, clearly sensing the direction his demonic counterpart's thoughts were heading in.

Crowley shook his head. "Nothing."

The angel gave him a comforting pat on the arm. "I'm sure things will all work out for the best."

Unconvinced, Crowley snorted, but he suppressed the urge to deliver a sarcastic retort. The angel might be spouting hopelessly optimistic platitudinous nonsense. But it was hopelessly optimistic platitudinous nonsense that came from centuries of fellowship and mutual understanding.

"So, this library reorganisation of yours...?" he said, quickly changing the subject.

Aziraphale beamed. "Oh, it's going wonderfully well."

-0-

"... what I don't understand is, _why_. I retired because I was on the wane. Couldn't keep up with the rest of the pack. But you... you've got the world at your feet." There was no condemnation in Gelb's voice, only a great deal of perplexity.

White quirked his head and chewed thoughtfully on arsenic-laced finger nail as he tried to formulate a suitably elegant response. When none were forthcoming, he settled for simplicity.

"I got bored."

"Bored." Gelb repeated the word as if it was a fiendishly difficult riddle. Then after about twenty seconds a look of comprehension dawned. "Yes... yes, I see how that might come about."

"You do?" White felt a faint stirring of something that he suspected might be hope.

"It's rather obvious when you think about it. Me, Carmine and Sable might have arisen in a world of tumult, but it was a staid sort of tumult: Famine, War, Pestilence. Cyclical and just a little predictable. You on the other hand came about in an age of flux: unpredictable, ever changing. You're part of the zeitgeist. More flexible. More restless. Not as set in your ways."

The duck, who had been introduced to White as Avian Flu Ernest gave a loud honk, clearly eager to make a conversational contribution.

"Well, that too," said Gelb. "Though I'm not sure how abstract aesthetic appreciation plays into it."

Ernest honked again and made several emphatic wing flapping gestures.

"Ephemeral qualities? I suppose you might be onto something." He looked at White and grinned. "You wouldn't think he spent his formative years in a five metre by six lily pond, would you?"

White, puzzled yet somehow charmed by Gelb's acquisition of a familiar, merely laughed as the duck eyed his mural and gave a few amused quacks.

Gelb, directing his full attention towards the mural for the first time gaped as the symbolic significance of the half-painted figures began to dawn. Then after a prolonged period of startlement that lasted for just over two minute he began to give a low, rasping and thoroughly delighted chuckle.

"Do you like it?" White asked, surprised at how apprehensive he felt as the words emerged from his lips.

With a wheezy splutter and a cracked-lipped grin, Gelb clapped him on the back. "White, my boy, it's a masterpiece. A true masterpiece." The personification of Pestilence lapsed into a fit of appreciative coughing as he once again scrutinised the frieze taking shape on the nightclub wall. "Though I'm not sure what Sable and Carmine would make of it."

White opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the sound of a booming voice ringing out somewhere outside.

**_"Dagon, thou shalt rue the day thou crossed paths with the Scribe of Fifth Sphere."_**

**_"Scribe. Hah. I've heard about your department Upstairs. You couldn't file an invoice if you halo depended on it."_**

**_"Recant thine words thou fishy worn."_**

Ernest looked from White to Gelb and gave an enquiring quack.

"Yes, I suppose I ought to do something," said Gelb, before giving an exaggerated sigh. Then he turned his gaze back to White. "I'll be back in a few moments. This shouldn't take long."

And with that Gelb strode purposefully out of the nightclub.

For a while the angel and demon continued to exchange verbal barbs. Then there was lull as a rasping, wheezing Gelb spoke in tones too low for White to catch exactly what was being said. This was followed by a resumption of yelling by the two protagonists, each threatening to do exceedingly violently things to both Gelb and one another unless their demands were met with immediate effect.

Ernest honked and ruffled his feathers, clearly concerned for Gelb's wellbeing.

White however merely gave a sigh and a heavy lidded smile. "Angels and demons and creatures not of this world," he murmured. "They really don't know what they're doing."

As Amitiel and Dagon's increasingly elaborate threats seemed poised reach a crescendo their voices cut out and a sudden dead silence settled. Then, after ten very long and tense seconds, a new sound filled the air: a cacophony of coughing and retching, more loud, horrible and out-and-out disgusting than anything ever emitted by a human.

Ernest gave a quack of delight.

"I told you," said White.

Two minutes later Gelb ambled back into view, a look of cheerful accomplishment on his face.

"Well, my young friends, that ought to keep them laid low for a while."


End file.
